English poem
XIV. the Blait Luvar
by John Pinkerton (1845–1908)
Quhen Flora had our fret the firth, In May of every moneth quene, Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth Sweit melling in the schawis schene; Quhen luvaris rejosit bene, And most desyrus of thair pray; I hard a lusty luvar mene, I luve, bot I dar nocht assay.
Strang are the panis I daylie prufe, Bot yet with patience I sustene; I am so fetterit with the lufe Onlie of my lady schene; Quhylk for her bewty micht be quene, Natour sa craftely alwey Hes done depaint that sweit scherene; Quhome I lufe I dar nocht essay.
Scho is sa brycht of hyd and hew I lufe but hir allone I wene; Is none hir lufe that may eschew That blenkis of that dulce amene. Sa cumly cleir ar hir twa ene, That scho ma luvaris dois effray Than evir of Grice did fair Helene. Quhom I luf I dar nocht assay.