Page:Cherrie and the slae.pdf/86

 74 POETRY. When with a whisk she whirls about li wheil, Rude is that rattil running with a reill, Whill top ouer tail goes honest men atains Then spurgald sporters they begin to speill The cadger clims, new deikit from the crei And lads uploups to Lordships all thair lain Doun goes the bravest, brecking all the banes. She works her will, God wot if it be weill She stoyts at strais, syne stumblis not a stanes. How she should hurt or help, she nen huiks: Luk as it lyks,she laughs and never luiks, But wavers like the weddercock in wind. She counts not Kings nor Cazards mair n cuiks; Reid but how she has bleckit Bocus buiks Thairin the fall of princess sall ye find That bloodie bitch! that buskit belly blin Dingas dounwards ау the duchtiest lyk duil Wha hopped highest oft tyms comes behii I neid not now to nominate thair names Whom she has shent and dayly shifts a shamnes. That longsome labour would be ou'r prolix Your selfis may see I think a thousan shames, Which poets, as her pursevants, proclaime Her fickle friendship is not firmly fixt;