Robene and Makyn

Robene sat on gud grene hill, Keipand a flok of fie: Mirry Makyne said him till, Robene thow rew on me; I haif thé luvit lowd and still This yeiris two or thré: My dule in dern bot gif thow dill, Doubtless bot dreid I dé.

Robene answerit, Be the rude Nathing of luse I knaw; Bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud, Lo quhair they raik on raw. Quhat hes marrit thé in thy mude, Makyne, to me thow schaw? Or quhat is luve or to be lu'ed? Faine wald I leir that law.

At luvis lair gif thow will leir, Tak thair an A, B, C: Be kynd, courtas, and fair of feir, Wyse, hardy, and fré. Sé that no danger do thé deir, Quhat dule in dern thow dré; Preiss thé with pane at all poweir, Be patient and previe.

Robene answerit her agane, I wait nocht quhat is luve; Bot I haif marvell incertaine Quhat makis thé this wanrufe. The weddir is fair, and I am fane, My scheip gois haill aboif; An we wald play us in this plane Thay wald us baith reproif.

Robene tak tent unto my tale, And wirk all as I reid; And thow sall haif my hairt all haile, Als far as maid couth yied. Sen God sendis bute for baill, And for murning remeid, In dern with thé but gif I daill Doubtles I am bot deid.

Makyne, to morne this ilka tyde And ye will meit mè heir; Peraventure my scheip may gang besyd Quhill we haif liggit full neir. Bot maugre haif I an I byd Fra they begin to steir; Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd, Makyne than mak gud cheir.

Robene, thou reivis me rois and rest, I luve but thé allone. Makyne, adew, the sone gois west The day is neirhand gone. Robene, in dule I am so drest That lufe will be my bone. Ga lufe, Makyne, quhair evir thou list, For leman I lue none.

Robene, I stand in sic a style, I sicht and that full sair. Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhile; At hame God gif I wair. My hinny Robene, talk ane quhyle Gif thou wilt do na mair. Makyne sum uther man begyle, For hamewart I will fair.

Robene on his wayis went As licht as leif of tré: Makyne murnit in her intent, And trowd him nevir to sé. Robene brayd attour the bent; Than Makyne cryit on hie: Now ma thou sing, for I am schent! Quhat alis lufe with me?

Makyne went hame withouttin faill, Full werry aftir couth weip. Than Robene in a ful fair daill Assemblit all his scheip. Be that sum parte of Makyne's ail Ourthrow his hairt cowd creip: He followit hir fast thair till assaill And till her tuke gude keep.

Abyd, abyd, thou fair Makyne; A word for ony thing! For all my luve it sall be thyne Withouttin departing. All haill thy hairt for till haif myne Is all my cuvating: My scheip to morn quhill houris myne Will neid of no keping.

Robene, thou has hard soung and say, In gestis and stories auld, The man that will not quhen he may, Sall haif nocht quhen he wald. I pray to Jesu every day Mot eik thair cairis cauld, That first preissis with thé to play Be firth, forrist, or fauld.

Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The wedder is warme and fair; And the grene woud rycht neir us by To walk attour all, quhair Thair may na janglour us espy, That is to lufe contrair: Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I Unsene we may repair.

Robene, that warld is all away, And quyt brocht till ane end; And nevir again thereto perfay, Sall it be as thou wend. For of my pane thou made it play, And all in vane I spend: As thou hes done sa sall I say Murne on I think to mend.

Makyne, the howp of all my heill, My hairt on thé is sett, And evir mair to thé be leill, Quhyle I may leif but lett. Nevir to faill, as utheris faill, Quhat grace that evir I gett. Robene, with thé I will not deill. Adew, for thus we mett.

Makyne went hame blythe aneuche Attoure the holtis hair: Robene murnit, and Makyne leuche, Scho sang, he sichit sair. And so left him baith wo and wreuch, In dolour and in cair, Kepand his hird under a heuch, Amang the holtis hair.