Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568

Skelton Laureate against the Scottes.

Against the proud Scottes clatteryng That neuer wyll leaue theyr tratlyng Wan they the felde, and lost their kynge They may wel say, fye on that winning.

LO these fond sottes. And tratling scottes How they are blind. In their owne minde And will not know. Their ouerthrow At Branxston more. They are so srowre So frantike mad. They say they had And wan the felde. With speare and shield That is as trew. As blacke is blew And grene is gray. What euer they say Iemmy is dead. And closed in leade That was theyr own king. Fy on that winning

At Flodden hilles. Oure bowes our bylles Slewe all the floure. Of theyr honoure. Are not these scottes. Foles and settes Suche boste to make. To prate and crake To face to brace All voyde of grace So proud of hart. So ouerth wart So out of frame. So voyd of shame As it is enrold. Wrytten and told Within this quaire. Who list to repair And ther in reed. Shal finde in deed A mad rekening. Considering all thing That the scottes may sin. Fye on the winning

When the Scotte lyued.

IOly Iemmy, ye scornefull Scot Is it come vnto your lot A solempne sumner for to be It greeth nought for your degre

Our kyng of England for to fight Your soueraine lord, our prince of might Ye for to send, such a Citacion It shameth al your noughty nacion In comparison, but kynge roppyng Unto our prince, annointed kyng Ye play Hop Lobbyn of Lowdean Ye shew ryght wel, what good ye can Ye may be Lord of Locrian Christ sence you, with a frying pan Of Edingborrow, and saincte Ionis towne A dieu syr sommer, cast of your crowne.

When the Scot was slayne.

COntinually I shall remember The mery moneth of September With the▪ xi. day of the same For than began, our myrthe and game So that now I haue deuised And in my minde, I haue comprised Of the proude Scot, kyng Iemmy To wryte some lyttell tragedy For no manner consideration Of any sorowful lamentation But for the special consolacion Of al our royal englysh nacion Melnomone, O muse tragediall Unto your grace, for grace now I call To guyde my pen, and my pen to enbibe

Illumine me, your Poet, and your scribe That with mixture of Aloes and bitter gall I may compound, confectures for Accordiall To angre the Scottes, & Irish kiteringes withal That late were discomfect, with battaile marcial

Thalia, my muse, for you also cal I To touche them with tauntes of your armonye A medley to make, of mirth with sadnes The hartes of England, to comfort with gladnes And now to begyn, I wyll me a dres To you rehersyng, the somme of my proces.

KYnge Iamy, Iemmy, Iocky my ioye Summond our king, why did ye so To you, nothing it did accord To Summon our king, your soueraigne Lorde A kyng a Summer, it was great wonder Knowye not suger, and salt a sonder Your Summer to saucye, to malapert Your harrold in armes, not yet halfe expert Ye thought ye did, yet valiauntlye Not worth thre skippes of a Pye Syr skyr galyard, ye were so skit Your wil, than ran before your wyt.

Your lege ye layd, and your aly Your franticke fable, not worth a fly Frenche kynge, or one or other Regarded you should your lord your brother

Trowed ye sir Iemy, his nobel grace From you sir scot, would tourne his face With gup syr scot, of Galawey Now is your pryde fall to decay Male vrid, was your fals entent For to offende your president Your soueraigne Lord, most reuerente Your Lord, your brother and your regent.

In him is figured, Melchisedecke And ye were disloyall Amalecke He is oure noble Scipione Annoynted kynge, and ye were noue Thoughe ye vntrulye your father haue slayne His tytle is true, in Fraunce to raygne And ye proude Scot, Dunde, Dun••ar Pardy ye were, his homager And suter to his Parliament For your vntruthe, nowe are ye shent Ye bare your self, somwhat to bold Therfore ye lost, your copy hold Ye were bonde tenent, to his estate Lost is your game, ye are checke mate

Unto the castell of Norram I vnderstande, to sone ye came At Branxston more, and Flodden hilles Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles

Against you gaue so sharpe a shower That of Scotland, ye lost the flower The white Lyon: there rampaunte of moode He raged and rente out your hart bloude He the White, and you the Red The white there slewe the red starke ded Thus for your guerdon quyt are ye Thanked be God in trinite And swete sainct George our ladyes knyghte Your eye is oute, a dewe good nyghte.

Ye were starke mad to make a fray His grace beyng out of the way But by the power and might of God For your tayle ye made a rod Ye wanted wit, sir at a worde Ye lost your spurs: ye lost your sword Ye mighte haue busked you to huntly bankes Your pryde was peuysh to play suche prankes Your pouerte could not attayne With our kyng royal, war to maintaine.

Of the kyng of Nauerne, ye myght take heed Ungraciously howe he dothe speede An double dealynge, so he dyd dreame That he is kynge, wythoute a Reame And for exaumple, he woulde none take Experiens hath brought you in such a brake

Your wealthe, your ioy, your sport, your play Your braggyng bost, your royal aray Your beard so brym, as bore at baye Your seuen systers, that Gun so gay All haue ye lost, and caste awaye. Thus fortune hath turned you: I dare wel saye Now from a kyng, to a clot of clay Oute of Robes, ye were shaked And wretchedly ye lay, starke all naked For lacke of grace, harde was your hap The Popes cures, gaue you that clap.

Of the out yles, the rough foted Scottes We haue wel eased them of the bottes The rude rācke Scottes, lyke droncken dranes At Englysh bowes haue fetched theyr banes It is not sitting, in tower and towne A Summer, to were a kynges crowne Fortune on you, therfore dyd frowne Ye were to hye, ye are cast downe Syr sumner now, where is your crowne Cast of your crowne, cast vp your crowne Sir Summer, now ye haue lost your crowne

Quod Skelton Laureate, Oratoure to the kyn∣ges most royal estate.

SCotica redicta in formam prouincie Regis parebit nutibus anglie: Alioquin (per desertum sin) super Cherubim Cherubin, seraphim, seraphin que ergo. &c.

Unto diuers people that remord this ryming againste the Scot Iemmy.

I Am now constrayned With wordes nothynge fayned This inuectiue to make For som people sake That lyst for to iangell And way wardly to wrangell Againste this my makynge Their males thereat shakynge At it reprehending. And venemously stingyng Rebukynge and remordyng And nothynge accordynge

Cause they haue none other But for that he was hys brother Brother vnnaturall. Unto our kyng royall Against whome he dyd fighte Faslye agaynst all ryghte Lyke that vtrue rebell Falsse Cayne agaynst Abell.

But who so there at pyketh mood The tokens are not good To be true Englysh blood For if they vnderstood His traitourly dispight He was a recrayed knighte A subtill sysmatike Righte neare an heritike Of grace out of the state

And died excommunicate

And for he was a kynge The more shameful rekenynge Of hym shoulde men reporte In earnest and in sporte He scantlye loueth oure kynge That grudgeth at this thinge That caste suche ouerth wartes Percase haue hollowe hartes

Si veritatē dico, quare non creditis michi. Chorus de Dys contra Scottes, cum omni processionali festiuitate solempne sauit hoc Epitoma. xxii. die Septembris. &c.

SAlue festa dies toto resonabilis euo Qua scottus iacobus obiuius en se cadit Barbara scottorum gens perfda plena maloruns Vincitur ad Norran, uertitut inque fugam Vasta paulus sed campestris (borie memoratur Branxion more) scottins terra perosa fuit Scottica castra fremunt Floddun sub mōtibus altis. Que Valide inuadens dissipat angla manus Millia scottorum trusit gens anglica passim Luxuriat tepido sanguine pi g••us humus Pas animas miseri miseras, misere sub umbras Pars ruit in foueas, pars subiit latebras

Iam quid ag't Iachobus, damnorū gremine cretus Persidus Vt nemro'th lapsus ad iam ruit Dic modo scottorum dudum male fane malorum Rector nunc Regeris mortuus exce iaces Sic Leo te Rapidus Leo candidus inclitus ursit quo Leo in Rubins ultim•• f••ta luis Anglia doc choreas Resonent tua tempana psallas Da laudes domino. Da pia uot a deo.

Hec Laureatus Skeltonis Regine orator.

Chorus de dis. &c. supar triumph ali victoīa centra gallos. &c. cantauit solemniter hoc Elogium in profesto diui Iohannis ad de colationem.

SAlue festa dies toto memorabilis euc. Qua rex Henricus gallico bella premit Henricus Rutilans Octauus noster in armis Tir winne gentis menit strauit humi Sceptriger anglorum bello ualiaissimus hector Francorum gentis colla superba terit Dux armis nuper celebris modo dux mermis De longuile modo dic quo tuo pomparuit De cleremount clarus dudum dic galle superbe Vnde superbus eris? carcere nonne gemis? Discite francorum gens cetera capt••, britannum

Noscite magnanimum, subdite uos que sibi Gloria cappa docis diue miles que Marie Illius hic sub ope Gallica regna reget. Hoc insigne bonum diuino Numine gestum Anglica gens referat sempar, ouans que canat Per Skeltonida Laureatum, Oratorem Regium.