Автор: ROBERT HENRYSON

Thocht feinzeit fabils of ald poetre, Be not al grunded vpon truth zit than, Thair polite termes of sweit rhetore […]

Forcy as deith is likand lufe, Throuch quhome al bittir suet is; No thing is hard, as writ can pruf, […]

Wythin a garth, under a rede rosere, Ane ald man and decrepit herd I syng; Gay was the note, suete […]

O eterne God of power infinyt, To Quhois hie knawledge na think is obscure- That is, or wes, or sal […]

Robene sat on gud grene hill Kepand a flok of fe; Mirry Makyne said him till, “Robene, thow rew on […]

This hindir yeir I hard be tald Thair was a worthy king; Dukis, erlis, and barronis bald He had at […]

Ane doolie sessoun to ane cairful dyte Suld correspond, and be equivalent. Richt sa it wes when I began to […]

Wald my gud lady lufe me best And wirk eftir my will, I suld ane garmond gudliest Gar mak hir […]

Fals titlaris now growis up full rank, Nocht ympit in the stok of cheretie, Howping at thair lord to gett […]

O sinfull man, in to this mortall se, Quhilk is the vaill of murnyng and of cair, With gaistly sicht […]

Me mervellis of this grete confusion; I wald sum clerk of connyng walde declerde, Quhat gerris this warld be turnyt […]

Allone as I went up and doun, In ane abbay wes fair to se, Thinkand quhat consolatioun Wes best in […]