Harpalus, and eke Corin,

Were herdmen both yfere:
And Phylida could twist and spinne,
And thereto sing full clere.

But Phylida was all tò coye,
For Harpalus to winne:
For Corin was her onely joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.

How often would she flowers twine?
How often garlandes make
Of couslips and of colombine ?
And al for Corin's sake.

But Corin, he had haukes to lure,
And forced more the field:
Of lovers lawe he toke no cure ;
For once he was begilde.

Harpalus prevailed nought,
His labour all was lost;

For he was fardest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

Therefore waxt he both pale and leane,
And dry as clot of clay :

His fleshe it was consumed cleane,
His colour gone away.

His beard it had not long be shave;
His heare hong all unkempt:
A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spitefull love had spent.

His eyes were red, and all 'forewacht; '
His face besprent with teares:

It semde unhap had him long 'hatcht,' In mids of his dispaires.

His clothes were blacke, and also bare; As one forlorne was he;

Upon his head always he ware

A wreath of wyllow tree.

1 The corrections are from ed. 1574.

His beastes he kept upon the hyll,

And he sate in the dale;

And thus with sighes and sorrowes shril,
He gan to tell his tale.

Oh Harpalus! (thus would he say)
Unhappiest under sunne!

The cause of thine unhappy day,
By love was first begunne.

For thou wentest first by sute to seeke
A tigre to make tame,

That settes not by thy love a leeke;
But makes thy griefe her game.

As easy it were for to convert
The frost into 'a' flame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,
Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.

Corin he liveth carèlesse :

He leapes among the leaves: He eates the frutes of thy redresse: Thou 'reapst,' he takes the sheaves. My beastes, a whyle your foode refraine, And harke your herdmans sounde; Whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine, Through-girt with many a wounde.

O happy be ye, beastès wild,

That here your pasture takes: I se that ye be not begilde

Of these your faithfull makes.

The hart he feedeth by the hinde :
The bucke harde by the do:
The turtle-dove is not unkinde
To him that loves her so.

The ewe she hath by her the ramme:
The yong cow hath the bull :
The calfe with many a lusty lambe
Do fede their hunger full.

But, wel-away! that nature wrought

The, Phylida, so faire:

For I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty all tò deare.

What reason is that crueltie
With beautie should have part?
Or els that such great tyranny

Should dwell in womans hart?

I see therefore to shape my death
She cruelly is prest;

To th' ende that I may want my breath:
My dayes been at the best.

O Cupide, graunt this my request,
And do not stoppe thine eares;
That she may feele within her brest
The paines of my dispaires :

Of Corin 'who' is carèlesse,
That she may crave her fee:
As I have done in great distresse,
That loved her faithfully.

But since that I shall die her slave;
Her slave, and eke her thrall :
Write you, my frendes, upon my grave
This chaunce that is befall.

"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus
By cruell love now slaine:
Whom Phylida unjustly thus

Hath murdred with disdaine."

XIII. ROBIN AND MAKYNE

AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH PASTORAL

The palm of pastoral poesy is here contested by a cotemporary writer with the author of the foregoing. The critics will judge of their respective merits; but must make some allowance for the preceding ballad, which is given simply as it stands in the old editions; whereas this, which follows, has been revised and amended throughout by Allan Ramsay, from whose "Ever-Green," vol. i. it is here chiefly printed. The curious reader may however compare it with the more original copy, printed among "Ancient Scottish poems, from the manuscript of George Bannatyne, 1568," Edinb. 1770, 12mo. Robert Henryson (to whom we are indebted for this poem) appears to so much advantage among the writers of eclogue, that we are sorry we can give little other account of him besides what is contained in the

Mr.

following eloge, written by W. Dunbar, a Scottish poet, who lived about the middle of the 16th century:

In Dumferling, he [Death] hath tane Broun,
With gude Mr. Robert Henryson.

Indeed some little further insight into the history of this Scottish bard is gained from the title prefixed to some of his poems preserved in the British Museum; viz. "The morall Fabillis of Esop compylit be Maister Robert Henrisoun, Scolmaister of Dumfermling," 1571. Harleian MSS. 3865. § I.

In Ramsay's "Ever-Green," vol. i. whence the above distich is extracted, are preserved two other little Doric pieces by Henryson; the one intitled "The Lyon and the Mouse;" the other, "The Garment of gude Ladyis." Some other of his poems may be seen in "Ancient Scottish Poems printed from Bannatyne's manuscript" above referred

to.

ROBIN sat on the gude grene hill,
Keipand a flock of fie,

Quhen mirry Makyne said him till,
'O Robin rew on me:

I haif the luivt baith loud and still,
Thir towmonds twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot giff thou dill,
Doubtless but dreid Ill die."

Robin replied, Now by the rude,
Naithing of luve I knaw,

But keip my sheip undir yon wod:

Lo quhair they raik on raw.

Quhat can have mart thee in thy mude,

Thou Makyne to me schaw;

Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wald I leir that law.

"The law of luve gin thou wald leir,
Tak thair an A, B, C ;

Be heynd,1 courtas, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, kind and frie,
Sae that nae danger 2 do the deir,
Quhat dule in dern thou drie;
Press ay to pleis, and blyth appeir,
Be patient and privie."

Robin, he answert her againe,

I wat not quhat is luve;

But I haif marvel in certaine

Quhat makes thee thus wanrufe.

1 Bannatyne's MS. reads as above, "heynd," not "keynd," as in the Edinb. edit.

1770.

2" So that no danger." Bannatyne's MS.

The wedder is fair, and I am fain;
My sheep gais hail abuve;
And sould we pley us on the plain,
They wald us baith repruve.

"Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
And wirk all as I reid;

And thou sall haif my heart all hale,
Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God, he sendis bute for bale,
And for murning remeid,
I'dern with thee bot gif I dale,
Doubtless I am but deid."

Makyne, to-morn be this ilk tyde,
Gif ye will meit me heir,
Maybe my sheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we have liggd full neir;
But maugre haif I, gif I byde,
Frae they begin to steir,

Quhat lyes on heart I will nocht hyd,
Then Makyne mak gude cheir.

"Robin, thou reivs me of my rest;
I luve bot thee alane."
Makyne, adieu! the sun goes west,
The day is neir-hand gane.

"6 Robin, in dule I am so drest,
That luve will be my bane."
Makyn, gae luve quhair-eir ye list,
For leman I luid nane.

"Robin, I stand in sic a style,

I sich and that full sair."

Makyne, I have bene here this quyle;
At hame I wish I were.

"Robin, my hinny, talk and smyle,
Gif thou will do nae mair."
Makyne, som other man beguyle,
For hameward I will fare.

Syne Robin on his ways he went,
As light as leif on tree;

But Makyne murnt and made lament,
Scho trow'd him neir to see.