Robert Henryson

The Ressoning betwix Aige and Yowth

Yowth  Quhen fair Flora the godes of the flowris
Baith firth and feildis freschely had ourfret
And perly droppis of the balmy schowris
Thir widdis grene had with thair water wet,
Movand allone in mornyng myld I met
A mirry man that all of mirth cowth mene,
Singand this sang that richt sweitly wes sett.
“O yowth, be glaid into thy flouris grene.”

Aige  I lukit furth a litill me befoir.
I saw a cative on a club cumand
With cheikis lene and lyart lokis hoir,
His ene was how, his voce was hes hostand,
Wallowit richt wan and waik as ony wand.
Ane bill he beure upoun his breist abone
In letteris leill but lyis with this legand,
“O yowth, thy flowris fedis fellone sone.”

Yowth  This yungman lap upoun the land full licht
And marvellit mekle of his misdome maid.
“Waldin I am,” quod he, “and woundir wicht
With bran as bair and breist burly and braid
Na growme on ground my gairdone may degraid
Nor of my pith may pair of wirth a prene.
My face is fair, my fegour will not faid.
O yowith, be glaid into thy flowris grene.”

Aige  This senyeour sang bot with a sobir stevin.
Schakand his berd he said, “My bairne, lat be.
I wes within thir sextie yeiris and sevin
Ane freik on fold als frak, forsy, and fre,
Als glaid, als gay, als ying, als yaip as ye
Bot now tha dayis ourdrevin ar and done.
Luke thow my laithly luking gif I le.
O yowth, thy flowris fadis fellone sone.”

Yowth  Ane uthir vers yit this yungman cowth sing,
“At luvis law a quhyle I think to leit,
In court to cramp clenely in my clething
And luke amangis thir lusty ladeis sweit
Of mariage to mell with mowis meit
In secreit place quhair we ma not be sene
And so with birdis blythly my baillis beit,
O yowth, be glaid into thi flowris grene.”

Aige  This awstrene man gaif answer angirly.
“For thy cramping thow salt baith cruke and cowre,
Thy fleschely lust thow salt also defy
And pane thee sall put fra paramour.
Than will no bird be blyth of thee in bouir.
Quhen thy manheid sall mynnis as the mone,
Thow sall assay gif that my sang be soure.
O yowth, thy flowris fadis fellone sone.”

Yowth  This mirry man of mirth yit movit moir.
“My corps is clene withowt corruptioun,
My self is sound but seiknes or but soir,
My wittis fyve in dew proportioun,
My curage is of clene complexioun,
My hairt is haill, my levar and my splene,
Thairfoir to reid this roll I haif ressoun,
O yowth, be glaid into thy flowris grene.”

Aige  The bevir hair said to this berly berne,
“This breif thow sall obey sone, be thow bald,
Thy stait, thy strenth thocht it be stark and sterne,
The feveris fell and eild sall gar thee fald,
Thy corps sall clyng, thy curage sall wax cald,
Thy helth sall hynk and tak a hurt bot hone,
Thy wittis fyve sall wane thocht thow not wald.
O yowth, thy flowris fedis fellone sone.”

This galyart grutchit and began to greif,
He on his wayis wrethly went but wene
This lene awld man luche not bot tuk his leif
And I abaid undir the levis grene.
Of the sedullis, the suthe quhen I had sene,
On trewth me thocht thay trevist in thair tone:
“O yowth, be glaid into thy flowris grene.”
“O yowth, thy flowris faidis fellone sone.”