THE Eagle and Robin Red-breist

THE prince of all the fethert kynd,
That with spred wings out fleis the wind,
And tours far out of humane sicht
To view the schynand orb of licht,
This ryall bird, tho braif and great,
And armit strang for stern debait,
Nae tyrant is, but condescends
Aftymes to treit inferiour friends.

ANE day at his command did flock
To his hie palace on a rock
The courtiers of ilk various syze
That swiftly swim in christal skyis.
Thither the valiant tersals doup,
And heir rapacious corbies croup,
With greidy gleds and slie gormahs,
And dinsome pyis and clatterin daws,
Proud pecocks, and a hundred mae,
Bruscht up thair pens that solemn day,
Bowd first submissive to My Lord,
Then tuke thair places at his borde.

MEIN tyme quhyle feisting on a fawn
And drinking blude frae lamies drawn,
A tunefull robin, trig and zung,
Hard by upon a bour-tree sung.
He sang the eagle's ryall lyne,
His persing ee and richt divyne
To sway out-owre the fetherit thrang
Quha dreid his martial bill, and sang
His flicht sublime and eild renewit,
His mynd with clemencie endewit.
In safter notes he sang his luve,
Mair hie his beiring bolts for Jove.

THE monarch bird with blythness hard
The chaunting litil silvan bard.
Calit up a buzart, quha was than
His favourite and chamberlane.
"Swith to my treasury," quod he,
"And to zon canty robin gie
As mekle of our currant geir
As may mentain him throw the zeir.
We can weil spairt, and its his due."
He bad, and furth the Judas flew,
Strait to the brench quhair Robin sung,
And with a wickit lieand tung
Said: "Ah! ze sing sae dull and ruch,
Ze haif deivt our lugs mair than enuch,
His Majestie hes a nyse eir,
And nae mair of zour stuff can beir.
Poke up zour pypes, be nae mair sene
At court, I warn ze as a frein."

HE spak, quhyle Robinis swelling breist
And drouping wings his greif confest,
The teirs ran happing doun his cheik.
Grit grew his hairt, he could nocht speik,
No for the tinsell of rewaird,
But that his notis met nae regaird.
Straicht to the schaw he spred his wing,
Resolvit again nae mair to sing.
Quhair princelie bountie is supprest
By sic with quhome they are opprest,
Quha cannot beir (because they want it)
That ocht suld be to merit grantit.

Quod AR. SCOT.

THE AIGLE AN ROBIN RED-BREIST

THE prince o aw the fethert kynd,
That wi spred wings ootflees the wynd,
An tours far oot o humane sicht
To view the schynin orb o licht,
This ryall bird, tho braif an grett,
An armit strang for stern debett,
Nae tirran is, but condesceens
Aftymes to trait inferiour freens.

ANE day at his commaund did flock
To his hee palace on a rock
The coortiers o ilk various syze
That swiftly swoom in christal skys.

Thither the vauliant tersals doop,
An here rapacious corbies croop,
With gredie gleds an sly gormaws,
An dinsome pys an clattrin daws,
Prood paycocks, an a hunder mae,
Bruscht up thair pens that solemn day,
Bood first submissive to My Lord,
Then tuke thair places at his bord.

Maintyme whyle feistin on a fawn
An drinking blude frae lamies drawn,
A tunefull robin, trig an young,
Hard by upon a boor-tree sung.
He sang the aigle's ryall lyne,
His persing ee an richt divyne
Ti sway out-owre the fetherit thrang
Wha dreid his martial bill, an sang
His flicht sublime an eild renewt,
His mynd wi clemencie endewt.
In safter notes he sang his leuve,
Mair hee his beiring bowts for Jeuve.

THE monarch bird with blythness hard
The chaunting little silvan bard.
Cawt up a buzart, wha was than
His favourite an chaumberlan.

"Swith ti ma traisury," quoth he,
"An til yon canty robin gie
As mekle o oor currant gear
As may mentain him throw the year.
We can weel spairt, an it's his due."

He bad, an furth the Judas flew,
Straicht til the brench whair Robin sung,
An wi a wickit leean tung
Sayd:

"Ah! ye sing sae dull an reuch,
Ye have deivt oor lugs mair than eneuch,
His Majestie hes a nyse eir,
An nae mair o yer stuff can beir.
Poke up yer pypes, be nae mair seen
At coort, I warn ye as a freen."

HE spak, whyle Robin's swellin breist
an droupin wings his graif confest,
The teirs ran happin doon his cheik.
Grit grew his hairt, he cood nocht speik,
No for the tinsell o rewaird,
But that his notes met nae regaird.
Straicht to the schaw he spred his wing,
Resolvt again nae mair ti sing.

Whair princelie boontie is supprest
Bi sic wi whom they er opprest,
Wha canna beir (acause they waunt it)
That ocht suld be to meerit grauntit.

Quod AR. SCOT.