V. the Vision

Bedoun the bents of Banquo brae Mi-lane I wandert waif and wae, Musand our main mischaunce; How be thay faes we ar undone, That staw the sacred stane frae Scone, And leid us sic a daunce: Quhile Ingland's Ederts tak our tours, And Scotland ferst obeys, Rude ruffians ransak ryal bours, And Baliol homage pays; Throch feidom our freidom Is blotit with this skore, Quhat Roman's, or no man's Pith culd eir do befoir.

The ayr grew ruch with bousteous thuds, Bauld Boreas branglit throw the cluds, Maest lyke a drunken wicht; The thunder crackt, and flauchts did rift Frae the black vissart of the lift; The forest schuke with fricht: Nae birds abune thair wing exten, They ducht not byde the blast; Ilk beist bedeen bang'd to thair den, Until the storm was past: Ilk creature in nature That had a spunk of sence, In neid then, with speid then, Methocht cryt, "In defence."

To se a morn in May sae ill, I deimt dame Nature was gane will, To rair with rackles reil; Quhairfor to put me out of pain, And skonce my skap and shanks frae rain I bure me to a biel, Up ane hich craig that lundgit alaft, Out owre a canny cave, A curious cruif of Nature's craft, Quhilk to me shelter gaif; Ther vexit, perplexit, I leint me doun to weip, In breif ther, with grief ther I dottard owre on sleip.

Heir Somnus in his silent hand Held all my sences at command, Quhile I forgot my cair; The myldest meid of mortall wichts Quha pass in peice the private nichts, That wauking finds it rare; Sae in saft slumbers did I ly, But not my wakryfe mynd, Quhilk still stude watch, and couth espy A man with aspeck kynd, Richt auld lyke and bauld lyke, With baird thre quarters skant, Sae braif lyke and graif lyke, He seimt to be a sanct.

Grit daring dartit frae his ee, A braid-sword schogled at his thie, On his left arm a targe; A shinand speir filled his richt-hand, Of stalwart mak, in bane and brawnd, Of just proportions large; A various rain-bow-colourt plaid Owre his left spawl he threw, Doun his braid back, frae his quhyte heid, The silver whimplers grew; Amaisit, I gaisit To se, led at command, A strampant and rampant Ferss lyon in his hand;

Quhilk held a thistle in his paw, And round his collar graift I saw This poesie pat and plain, Nemo me impune lacess- -et: — In Scots, Nane sall oppress Me, unpunisit with pain Still schaking, I durst naithing say, Till he with kynd accent Sayd, Fere, let nocht thy hairt affray, I cum to heir thy plaint; Thy graining and maining Haith laitlie reik'd mine eir, Debar then affar then All eiryness or feir.

For I am ane of a hie station, The Warden of this auntient nation, And can nocht do thee wrang; I vissyt him then round about, Syne with a resolution stout, Speird, Quhair he had been sae lang! Quod he, Althoch I sum forsuke, Becaus they did me slicht, To hills and glens I me betuke, To them that luves me richt; Quhase mynds yet inclynds yet To damm the rappid spate, Devysing and prysing Freidom at ony rate.

Our trechour peirs thair tyranns treit, Quha jib them, and thair substance eit, And on thair honour stramp; They puire degenerate! bend thair baks, The victor, Longshanks, proudly cracks He has blawn out our lamp: Quhyle trew men, fair complainand, tell, With sobs, thair silent greif, How Baliol thair richts did sell, With small howp of reliefe; Regretand and fretand Ay at his cursit plot, Quha rammed and crammed That bargain doun their throt.

Braif gentrie sweir, and burghers ban, Revenge is muttert by ilk clan That's to thair nation trew; The cloysters cum to cun the evil, Mail-payers wiss it to the devil, With its contryving crew. The hardy wald with hairty wills, Upon dyre vengance fall; The fechless fret owre heuchs and hills, And eccho answers all, Repetand and gretand, With mony a fair alace, For blasting and casting Our honour in disgrace.

Waes me! quod I, our case is bad, And mony of us are gane mad, Sen this disgraceful paction; We are felld and herryt now by forss, And hardly help fort, that's yit warse, We are sae forfairn with faction. Then has not he gude cause to grumble, That's forst to be a slaif? Oppression dois the judgment jumble, And gars a wyse man raif. May chains then, and pains then Infernal be thair hyre Quha dang us, and flang us Into this ugsum myre.

Then he with bauld forbidding luke, And staitly air did me rebuke, For being of sprite sae mein: Said he, Its far beneath a Scot To use weak curses, quhen his lot May sumtyms four his splein; He rather sould, mair lyke a man, Some braif design attempt; Gif its not in his pith, what than! Rest but a quhyle content, Not feirful, but cheirful, And wait the will of Fate, Which mynds to, desynds to Renew your auntient state.

I ken sum mair than ye do all Of quhat sall afterwart befall, In mair auspicious tymes; For aften far abufe the mune, We watching beings do convene, Fra round eard's utmost clymes, Quhair evry Warden represents Cleirly his nation's case, Gif Famine, Pest, or Sword torments, Or vilains hie in place, Quha keip ay, and heip ay Up to themselves grit store, By rundging and spunging The leil laborious puire.

Say then, said I, at your hie state, Lernt ye oucht of auld Scotland's fate, Gif eir schoil be her sell? With smyle celest, quod he, I can, But its nocht fit an mortall man Sould ken all I can tell: But part to thee I may unfold, And thou may saifly ken, Quhen Scottish peirs slicht Saxon gold, And turn trew heartit men; Quhen knaivrie and slaivrie, Ar equally dispysd, And loyalte, and royalte, Universallie are prysd.

Quhen all your trade is at a stand, And cunyie clene forsaiks the land, Quhilk will be very sune, Will priests without thair stypands preich? For noucht will lawyers causes streich? Faith that's nae easy dune. All this, and mair, maun cum to pass, To cleir your glomourit sicht; And Scotland maun be maid an ass, To set hir judgment richt. They'l jade hir, and blad hir, Until scho brak hir tether, Thoch auld schois, yit bauld schois, And teuch lyke barkit lether.

But mony a corss sall braithless ly, And wae sall mony a widow cry, Or all rin richt agaih; Owr Cheviot prancing proudly North, The faes sall tak the field near Forth, And think the day their ain; But burns that day sall ryn with blude Of them that now oppress; Thair carcasses be corbys fude, By thousands on the gress. A King then sall ring then, Of wyse renoun and braif, Quhase puisans and sapiens, Sall richt restoir and saif.

The view of freidomis sweit, quod I, O say, grit Tennent of the skye, How neiris that happie tyme? We ken things but be circumstans: Nae mair, quod he, I may advance, Lest I commit a cryme. Quhat eir ye plees, gae on, quod I, I sall not fash ye moir, Say how, and quhair ye met, and quhy, As ye did hint befoir. With air then sae fair then, That glanst like rais of glory, Sae godlyk and oddlyk He thus resumit his storie.

Frae the sun's rysing to his sett, All the pryme rait of Wardens met, In solemn bricht array, With vechicles of aither cleir; Sic we put on quhen we appeir To sauls rowit up in clay; Ther in a wyd and splendid hall, Reird up with shynand beims, Quhais rufe-tries were of rain-bows all, And paift with starrie gleims, Quhilk prinkled and twinkled Brichtly beyont compair, Much famed and named A CASTILL IN THE AYR.

In midst of quhilk a tabill stude, A spacious oval, reid as blude, Made of a fyre-flaucht, Arround the dazeling walls were drawn, With rays be a celestial hand, Full mony a curious draucht. Inferiour beings flew in haist, Without gyde or derectour, Millions of myles throch the wyld waist, To bring in bowlis of nectar: Then roundly and soundly We drank lyk Roman gods: Quhen Jove sae dois rove sae, That Mars and Bacchus nods.

Quhen Phebus' heid turns licht as cork, And Neptune leans upon his fork, And limpand Vulcan blethers: Quhen Pluto glowrs as he were wyld, And Cupid, luves wee wingit chyld, Fals down and fyls his fethers. Quhen Pan forgets to tune his reid, And flings it cairless bye, And Hermes, wingd at heils and heid, Can nowther stand nor lye: Quhen staggirand and swaggirand, They stoyter hame to sleip, Quhyle centeries and enteries Immortall watches keip.

Thus we tuke in the hich brown liquour, And bangd about the nectar biquour; But evir with this ods, We neir in drink our judgments drensch, Nor scour about to seik a wensch Lyk these auld baudy gods; But franklie at ilk uther ask, Quhat's proper we suld know, How ilk ane has performit the task, Assignd to him below. Our mynd then, sae kynd then, Is fixt upon our care, Ay noting and ploting Quhat tends to thair weilfair.

Gothus and Vandall baith lukt bluff, Quhyle Gallus sneerd and tuke a snuff, Quhilk made Allmane to stare; Latinus bad him naithing feir, But lend his hand to haly weir, And of cowd crouns tak care; Batavius with his paddock-face Luking asquint, cry'd, Pisch! Your monks are void of sence or grace, I had leur ficht for fisch; Your schule-men ar fule-men, Carvit out for dull debates, Decoying and destroying Baith monarchies and states.

Iberius with a gurlie nod Cryd, Hogan, yes, we ken your God, Its herrings ye adore. Heptarchus, as he usd to be, Can nocht with his ain thochts agre, But varies bak and fore; Ane quhile he says, It is not richt A Monarch to resist; Neist braif all ryal powir will slicht, And passive homage jest: He hitches and fitches Betwein the hic and hoc, Ay jieand and fleand Round lyk a wedder-cock,

I still support my precedens Abune them all, for sword and sens, Thoch I haif layn richt lown, Quhilk was, becaus I bure a grudge At sum fule Scotis, quha lykd to drudg To princes no thair awin; Sum Thanis their tennants pykit and squeist, And pursit up all thair rent, Syne wallopit to far courts, and bleist, Till riggs and schaws war spent; Syne byndging, and whyndging, Quhen thus redusit to howps, They dander and wander About, puire lickmadowps.

But now its tyme for me to draw My shynand sword against club-law, And gar my lyon roir; He sall or lang gie sic a sound, The eccho sall be heard around Europe frae schore to schore; Then let them gadder all thair strength, And stryve to wirk my fall, Thoch numerous, yit at the lenth I will owrcum them all, And raise yit and blase yit My braifrie and renown, By gracing and placing Aright the Scottis crown.

Quhen my braif BRUCE the same sall weir Upon his ryal heid, full cleir The diadem will shyne; Then sall your fair oppression ceis, His intrest yours he will not fleice, Or leif you eir inclyne: Thoch millions to his purse be lent, Ye'll neir the puirer be, But rather richer, quhyle its spent Within the Scottish se: The field then sall yield then To honest husband's welth, Gude laws then sall cause then A sickly state haif helth.

Quhyle thus he talkit, methocht ther came A wondir fair etherial dame, And to our Warden sayd, Grit Callydon I cum in serch Of you, frae the hich starry arch, The counsill wants your aid; Frae evry quarter of the sky, As swift as a quhirl-wynd, With spirits speid the chieftains hy, Sum grit thing is desygnd. Owre muntans be funtains, And round ilk fairy ring, I haif chaist ye, O haist ye, They talk about your King.

With that my hand methocht he schuke, And wischt I happyness micht bruke, To eild by nicht and day, Syne quicker than an arrow's flicht, He mountit upwarts frae my sicht, Straicht to the milkie way; My mynd him followit throw the skyes, Untill the brynie streme For joy ran trickling frae myne eyes, And wakit me frae my dreme; Then peiping, half sleiping, Frae furth my ryal beild, It eisit me, and pleisit me To se and smell the feild.

For Flora in hir clene array, New washen with a showir of May, Lukit full sweit and fair; Quhile hir cleir husband frae above Sched doun his rayis of genial luve, Hir sweits perfumit the ayr; The wynds war husht, the welkin cleird, The glumand clouds war fled, And all as saft and gay appeird As ane Elysian sched; Quhil heisit and bleisit My heart with sic a fyre, As raises these praises, That do to heaven aspyre.