That Prince come prowdly to the toun
Of that Gyand to heir,
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun
Allane withouten feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full weill worthy weir.
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht
Unto her fadir fre.
Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht
That he behuvit to de;
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the world was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,
With all her mekill mycht—
"I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,
That dulfully now is dicht;
God sen my lyfe were fra me tane
Or I had seen yone sicht,
Or ellis in begging evir to gane
Furth with yone curtass knycht."
He said "Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow;
Take ye my serk that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow,
First think on it, and syne on me
Quhen men cumis yow to wow."
The Lady said "Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a vow."
Quhen that scho lukit to the sark
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir hart
That lowsit hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk
Into that deip dungeoun;
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,
That wess hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht
That no man wald scho tak:
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis sak,
Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinité,
Baith in hevin and heir;
The manis saule to the Lady,
The Gyand to Lucefeir,
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre
And coft our synnis deir;
The pit to Hele with panis fell,
The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all sin away
That in our breist is bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,
For ws his blud that bled,
To be our help on domisday
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrayit with Lucefeir,
Quha sittis in hell full merk:
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
And for his lufe that bocht us deir
Think on the BLUDY SERK!
— Robert Henryson
1425-1500
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