Skelton Laureate Against the Scottes

Agaynst the prowde Scottes clatterynge,That neuer wyll leaue theyr tratlynge:Wan they the felde, and lost theyr kynge?They may well say, fye on that wynnynge!

Lo, these fonde sottesAnd tratlynge Scottes,How thei are blyndeIn theyr owne mynde,And wyll not knowTheyr ouerthrowAt Branxton more!They are so stowre,So frantyke mad,They say they hadAnd wan the feldeWith spere and shelde:That is as trewAs blacke is blewAnd grene is gray.What euer they say,Jemmy is dedAnd closed in led,That was theyr owne kynge:Fy on that wynnynge!At Floddon hyllysOur bowys, our byllys,Slewe all the floureOf theyr honoure.Are not these ScottysFolys and sottys,Suche boste to make,To prate and crake,To face, to brace,All voyde of grace,So prowde of hart,So ouerthwart,So out of frame,So voyde of shame,As it is enrolde,Wrytten and toldeWithin this quayre?Who lyst to repayre,And therin reed,Shall fynde indeedA mad rekenynge,Consyderynge al thynge,That the Scottis may syngeFy on the wynnynge!

Joly Jemmy, ye scorneful Scot,Is it come vnto your lotA solempne sumner for to be?It greyth nought for your degreOur kynge of Englande for to syght,Your souerayne lord, our prynce of might:Ye for to sende such a citacion,It shameth all your noughty nacion,In comparyson but kynge KoppyngeVnto our prince, annoynted kynge.Ye play Hob Lobbyn of Lowdean;Ye shew ryght well what good ye can;Ye may be lorde of Locrian,—Chryst sence you with a frying pan!—Of Edingborrow and Saint Ionis towne:Adieu, syr sumner, cast of youre crowne!

Continually I shall rememberThe mery moneth of September,With the ix daye of the same,For then began our myrth and game;So that now I haue deuysed,And in my minde I haue comprysed,Of the prowde Scot, kynge Jemmy,To wryte some lyttle tragedy,For no maner consyderacionOf any sorowful lamentacion,But for the special consolacionOf all our royall Englysh nacion.Melpomone, O Muse tragediall,Vnto your grace for grace now I call,To guyde my pen and my pen to enbybe!Illumyn me, your poete and your scrybe,That with myxture of aloes and bytter gallI may compounde confectures for a cordiall,To angre the Scottes and Irysh keteringes withall,That late were discomfect with battayle marcyall.Thalia, my Muse, for you also call I,To touche them with tauntes of your armony,A medley to make of myrth with sadnes,The hartes of England to comfort with gladnes:And now to begyn I wyll me adres,To you rehersynge the somme of my proces.Kynge Jamy, Jemmy, Jocky my jo,Ye summond our kynge,—why dyd ye so?To you nothing it dyd accordeTo summon our kynge, your soueraygne lord.A kyng, a sumner! it was great wonder:Know ye not suger and salt asonder?Your sumner to saucy, to malapert,Your harrold in armes not yet halfe experte.Ye thought ye dyd yet valyauntly,Not worth thre skyppes of a pye:Syr skyrgalyard, ye were so skyt,Your wyll than ran before your wyt.Your lege ye layd and your alyYour frantick fable not worth a fly,Frenche kynge, or one or other;Regarded ye should your lord, your brother.Trowid ye, Syr Jemy, his nobul graceFrom you, Syr Scot, would turne his face?Now is your pryde fall to decay.Male vryd was your fals ententFor to offende your presydent,Your souerayne lord most reuerent,Your lord, your brother, and your regent.In him is fygured Melchisedec,And ye were disloyall Amalec.He is our noble Scipione,Annoynted kynge; and ye were none,Thoughe ye vntruly your father haue slayne.His tytle is true in Fraunce to raygne;And ye, proud Scot, Dunde, Dunbar,Pardy, ye were his homager,And suter to his parliament:For your vntruth now ar ye shent.Ye bare yourselfe somwhat to bold,Therfore ye lost your copyehold;Ye were bonde tenent to his estate;Lost is your game, ye are checkmate.Vnto the castell of Norram,I vnderstande, to sone ye came.At Branxston more and Flodden hylles,Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles,Agaynst you gaue so sharpe a shower,That of Scotland ye lost the flower.The Whyte Lyon, there rampaunt of moode,He ragyd and rent out your hart bloode;He the Whyte, and ye the Red,The Whyte there slew the Red starke ded.Thus for your guerdon quyt ar ye,Thanked be God in Trinite,And swete Sainct George, our ladies knyght!Your eye is out; adew, good nyght!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 owne tayle ye made a rod.Ye wanted wit, syr, at a worde;Ye lost your spurres, ye lost your sworde.Ye myght haue buskyd you to Huntley bankys;Your pryde was peuysh to play such prankys:Your pouerte coude not attayneWith our kynge royal war to mayntayne.Of the kyng of Nauerne ye might take heed,Vngraciously how he doth speed:In double delynge so he did dreme,That he is kynge without a reme;And, for example ye would none take,Experiens hath brought you in suche a brake.Your welth, your ioy, your sport, your play,Your bragynge bost, your royal aray,Your beard so brym as bore at bay,Your Seuen Systers, that gun so gay,All haue ye lost and cast away.Thus fortune hath tourned you, I dare well saye,Now from a kynge to a clot of clay:Out of your robes ye were shaked,And wretchedly ye lay starke naked.For lacke of grace hard was your hap:The Popes curse gaue you that clap.Of the out yles the roughe foted Scottes,We haue well eased them of the bottes:The rude ranke Scottes, lyke dronken dranes,At Englysh bowes haue fetched theyr banes.It is not fytting in tower and towneA sumner to were a kynges crowne:Fortune on you therfore did frowne;Ye were to hye, ye are cast downe.Syr sumner, now where is your crowne?Cast of your crowne, cast vp your crowne!Syr sumner, now ye haue lost your crowne.

Scotia, redacta in formam provinciæ,Regis parebit nutibus Angliæ:Alioquin, per desertum Sin, super cherubim,Cherubin, seraphim, seraphinque, ergo, &c.