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Heir begynnis
The Buke of the Howlat.

 

I.

n the myddis of May, at morne, as I went,
Throwe myrth markit on mold, till a grene meid,
The bemes blytheft of ble fro the ſon blent,
That all brichtnyt about the bordouris on breid:

With alkyn herbes of air that war in erd lent
The feldís fluriſt, and fret full of fairhed;
So ſoft was the ſeſſoun our Souerane dovne ſent,
Throw the greable gift of his Godhed,
That all was amyable owr the air and the erd:
Thus, throw thir cliftis fo cleir,
Withoutin fallowe or feir,
I raikit till ane Reveir,That ryally apperd.