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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 dovnedoune [sic] 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.