❧The tragical end and death of the Lord Iames Regent of Scotland, lately set forth in Scottish, and printed at Edinburgh. 1570. And now partly turned in to English.
IAMES Earle of Murray Regent of renowne
Now lieth dead, and wofully put downe,
Murdred wtout mercy, mourning for remaid
Who lost his life in Lythquo by a Clowne,
Giltles God wot, betrayed in to that towne.
Was slayne by gunshot, and sodainly put to death,
Done by the Papists our foes, through fellonous faith.
Hangman to Harry, now Burrio to their brother,
Well may this murther manifest the tother.
¶What wight a lyue would not lament his losse?
Wo is me to want him, is the common voyce:
For such a Prince shal neuer poore man haue,
Kylled by a Traytour, stealing vpon him close,
Purposing of purpose, life for life to lose,
But no comparison twixt a Kinges sonne and a Knaue
Sith he is gone, we cannot againe him craue.
Through al our realme I dare wel make this choise,
Raigned not his fellow since buried was the Bruise.
¶To kéepe good rule he rode, and tooke no rest,
Both South and North, and somtime East and West,
All to decore our common wealth men know:
By whom let vs sée, was Pirates so opprest?
Or yet the theeues so throwne downe and drest?
Argyle and Huntlye hid them both for aw,
And when he might, he was tendant at Law,
Twyse on a day, and sleeped not in sleuth,
To see no fauters should beare them by the treuth.
¶Of this foule fact suppose our foes be fayne,
Yet after Moyses, Iosua comes agayne,
To guide the people, geue glory therfore to GOD.
Should they succeede, that haue Lord Iames so slayne?
Beware of that, least that ye feele the payne,
And haue your weake ones wyrried with the Tode.
Thinke ye with reason that such should rule the rod,
Which with double murder haue made vs such ado
And with our Kyng would play like cousonage to?
¶Pray, if you please, I warrant you ye haue néede,
To kéepe our King from kankred Kedzochis seede,
That dayly wayes inuentes to put him downe:
His Graundsire slayne at Lythquo as I it réede,
His Gudsire thrise did leaue this land in déede,
Harry at midnight murdred in this towne,
His Cousin now last, and yet they claime the crowne.
Blinde Iocke may gesse, if these be godly déedes,
Brude by that Bishop in whō this mischiefes bréedes
¶Cut of that Papist Prothogal partes,
That with his leesings all the Laitie peruartes,
Straight ioyne your forces to the fieldes without feare,
Because ye take your stoutnes al in startes,
To Hammilton in hast while ye haue hartes.
Deuise some way to pay your men of warre,
For if they once begon, ye neede not gather geare.
Fight well, and war them, and win the riches thore,
And if ye doe thus, in deede ye neede no more.
¶Curst be ye both, Bishop and Bothwell ech,
For this foule deede, your neckes the halter stretch,
If ye two want the withy, they do much wrong you:
Lythquo lament, your Burgeses may looke bleach,
In their sayd time your Burrow rueth the leach,
Because of this murther lately made among you,
For if I thought it helped ought to hang you,
So should ye die, and set your towne on fire,
As some part of punishment to asswage Gods ire.
¶Ouer these two houses for these déedes inding,
The hand of GOD doth ouer their heades hing,
Them to destroy, I dout not in these our daies:
Hepburnis wil go to wracke, for wyrring of the King,
But Hamiltons fye, this was a fouler thing.
Is this your firme religion, yea is, yea is?
Such a time shall come I trow as Thomas saies:
Heardmen shal hunt you vp through Garranis hill,
Casting their Plates and let the plough stand still.
¶Apparantly these plages are poured out,
To wreake this world, and wot ye where about?
Because we want no vice vnder the heauen:
Sith double murder makers séeke to rule the rout,
With the Niniuites to our GOD let vs go cry and shout,
For to retreate that sentence iustly geuen.
Yet thou good Lord, that iudgeth al thinges euen,
Seing the perril that ouer the people standes,
Let not their blood be sought at giltles handes.
¶Now Lordes & Lordings assembled in this place,
Ouer long we talke of Tragedies, alas,
Away with care, with comfort now conclude:
As good in paper, as speake it to your face,
If murtherers for this geare get any grace,
Ye shal be shent, thinke on, I say for good,
Sith arte and part are gilty of his blood,
Why should ye feare, or fauor them for fleiching[?]?
Ye herd your selues what Knox spake at the preaching.
¶First on the fieldes, make shortly to le [...]
We lacke but one, and what the woorse are wée?
Sith GOD was pleased to take him out of pine:
Al men on moold are marked for to dye,
In time and place appointed, so was he.
Let not in care your couragies decline,
For want of one I would not al should tine.
Go seeke at Roxbrugh when the King was slaine
And yet one woman wan the house agayne.
¶Sith then by women doughty déedes were done,
Ye Barrons be blithe, and hold your harts aboue,
And let vs heare wherefore ye hapned hither,
They are no great partie, and ye speede you soone,
Albeit that boyd be dayily in Denone,
Lang or Argyle be gathered in together,
When al is done, the Counsaile may consider,
What is the most those murtherers may do,
Suppose that Huntly would come & help them to.
¶Had we one head would stoutly vndertake it,
The Barrons sayes they should be boldly backed,
Mought they with speedines trauel to these townes:
Why stand ye afeard of Traitours twise detracted?
Thinke ye not shame to heare your Lordships lacked?
Some feares their flesh, som gins to gather crownes
[...]ides their heads, som girds them vp in gownes
Looke how your enmies prides thē in their spurring
Keping the fields, and frées not in their furring.
¶Wo worth the wiues that fostred you and fed,
Ye do nothing loue but lye on soften bed,
And keepe you fro cold, with cloutes in your shoo:
I thinke great wonder how ye can be so dred,
Or fray at them that last before you fled.
Wanting their Quene, sith God is gaynst them too.
Why lye ye here, hauing here litle to do?
The Barrons bids you shortly bide, or els begone,
Courage decaies if Scotishmen tary long.
¶Haue Lions lookes, and then make way forth cleare,
Be Hannibals, and hoyse your harts with cheare.
But be not still, while those Knaues do enclose you.
He néedes not worke that hath one good ouersaeer,
Nor ye néede fight, so that your hartes were fraeer.
But by my soule my selfe could neuer ruse[?] you:
I know wel for this crime Christ shal accuse you.
For sparing Agag, Saul was punished sore,
So shal he you, I dare not say no more.
¶The Lord of hostes that heauen & earth cōmaundes,
Kéepe our yong King from al vnhappy handes,
And that good Queene of England, and her Counsel to.
Ye feare the Frenchmen should ouerlay these landes,
But I heare say by some that vnderstandes,
The Doctours doubt but they haue more ado.
Our Quéene is kept straightly, her power is igo,
England wil help you, and ye wil help your selues,
And be the contrair, craue of them nothing els.
¶Thus fare ye wel, I spare not to offend you,
In simple verse this Schedul that I send you,
Beseching you to scanne it if ye may.
Steale ye away, the wiues wil vilypend you,
And if ye byde, the Barrons wil commend you.
Best were it I thinke, we might preuent that day,
Their méeting is on Sonday I heare say,
In Glasgow towne, thinking to fight or flée,
It lookes wel there, ye get no more of mée.
FINIS.
¶The Tragedies Lenuoy.
AS men recordes,
In dede my Lordes,
I shrinke not for to shew:
Suppose ye cracke,
Ye lye abacke,
And lybelles by the Law.
Ye make not to,
As men should do,
I trow ye stand in som aw:
Suppose ye hight,
To see you fight,
That day wil neuer daw.
Is no remayd,
Fro he be dead,
No man to seke amendes:
Or who is here,
Dare breake a speare,
Upon yone limmeris lends
Ye dare not mum,
Tyl Sadler come,
To sée what England sends:
Thinking to say it,
And ay delay it,
And so the matter endes.
With sighes and sobs,
And belted robes,
Ye counterfeite the dule:
What doughty déedes,
To weare such wéedes?
Except it were a fule.
Make to the towne,
And cow them downe,
Now or your courage cule
For Maddie sayes,
Bide ye few dayes,
Ye be not ther while Zule.
Is this the thing,
Who guides the King?
Ye cannot al agrée:
Now fye for shame,
Fetch Leuenox hame,
Ye haue none nar nor hée.
If he want grace,
To guyde that place,
Ther is other two or thrée:
Then war I fayne,
But all in vayne,
To wysh and wyll not bée.
And some there bene,
Wartes on the Queene,
But gape awhil they get her
And were shee here,
I take no feare,
The Fiend aby we set her,
For we are now,
As stark I trow,
As farnȝer whē we met her
When all is done,
They start to sone,
To boast, & not the better.
I thinke it best,
Ye take no rest,
If ye durst vnder take it:
And we be trew,
We are iniew,
Ye shal be boldly backe it.
But sine I see,
It wyll not bée,
That metre wil not make it
The Fiend make cair,
I say na mair,
I rew that euer I spake it.
Rob. Sempill.
Finis.
Imprinted at Lō don by Iohn Awdely, dwelling in litle Britaine strete, without Aldersgate. 1570.