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 drye 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.

Ver. 33, &c. The corrections are from Ed. 1574.

45

40

His clothes were blacke, and also bare;

As one forlorne was he;

Upon his head alwayes he ware

A wreath of wyllow tree.

His beastes he kept upon

And he sate in the dale;

the hyll,

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 wilde,
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[e], 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 shal 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 Ramsey, 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 MS. of George Bannatyne, 1568, Edinb. 1770, 12mo.' Mr. 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 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. § 1.

In Ramsay's Evergreen,' 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 the Ancient Scottish Poems printed from Bannatyne's MS.' 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 thee luivt baith loud and still,
Thir towmonds twa or thre;

My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
Doubtless but dreid Ill die.'

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

But keip my sheip undir yon

Lo quhair they raik on raw.

wod:

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, courtas, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, kind and frie,

Sae that nae danger 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;

Ver. 19, Bannatyne's MS. reads as above, heynd, not keynd, as in the Edinb. edit. 1770.-Ver. 21, So that no danger. Bannatyne's MS.