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Than said the Angell chaist,
Be the power of the Haly Gaist,
Quhilk all thing wirk he can.
La, lay, la.

Elizabeth thy cousing also,
Sex monthis with chylde can go,
At whais birth greit joy sall be.
La, lay, la.

Call him Johne, sayis the Angell bricht,
Quhilk is send be Goddis micht,
The Lordis way prepare sall he.
La, lay, la.

The first part ends with the above hymn, and a note is added as follows:Heir endis the Spirituall Sangis, and beginnis the Psalmes of David, with other new pleasand Ballattis. Transslatit out of Enchiridion Psalmorum, to be sung.

The first stanza of the following, which most closely adhere to the old song, of which it is a parody, sufficiently indicates the character of the hymns, and the tunes to which they were sung.

Quho is at my windo? quho, quho?
Go from my windo, go, go;
Quho callis thair, sa lyke a strangair?
Go from my windo, go!
Lord, I am heir, ane wretchit mortall,
That for Thy mercy dois cry and call
Unto Thee, my Lord celestiall,

So quho is at my windo, quho.
In till ane mirthfull May morning
Quhen Phebus did up spring,
Walkand I lay, in ane garding gay,
Thinkand on Christ sa fre:
Quhilk meiklie for mankynde,
Tholit to be pynde,

On croce cruellie. La, lay, la.

Johne, cum kis me now,
Johne, cum kis me now,
Johne, cum kis me by and by,

And mak no moir adow.
The Lord thy God I am,

That Johne dois thee call;
Johne represented man,

Be grace celestial,
For Johne, Goddis grace it is,
(Quha list till expone' the same)
Och Johne, thou did amis,

Quhen that thou loist this name.
Musing greitly in my mynde,
The folie that is in mankynde,
Quhilk is sa brukill and sa blind,
And downe sall cum, downe ay,
downe ay.

Downe be yone river I ran,
Downe be yone river I ran,
Thinkand on Christ sa fre

That brocht me to libertie;

And I ane sinful man.

[The air of the following is said to have been a favourite with Henry VIII. The first mention of it by a Scottish poet is by Henryson. As showing the anti-Popish spirit of the times, we give the first four stanzas.]

With huntis up, with huntis up,

It is now perfite day,
Jesus our king, is gane hunting,

Quha lykis to speid thay may.
Ane cursit fox lay hid in rox,2

This lang and mony ane day, Devouring scheip, quhill he micht creip, Nane micht him schaip3 away.

It did him gude to laip the blude
Of young and tender lammis;
Nane culd he mis for all was his,
The young anes with thair dammis.
2 Rocks.

I Who chooses to ex-
pound.

3 Scare.

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do not enable us to say when she was born; but in the dedication to her of his Poems, in 1598, Alexander Hume gives as a reason for such dedication, "because ye delite in poesie yourselfe, and as I unfainedly confes, excelles any of your sexe in that art that ever I heard within this nation. I have seen your compositiones so copious, so pregnant, so spirituall, that I doubt not but it is the gift of God in you." As might be expected of the author of "The Godly Dream," she took an active part in the religious controversies of her day, and strongly sympathized with the Presbyterian cause in its struggles.

The first edition of "The Dream" is dated Edinburgh, 1603, but it is very likely to have been composed somewhat earlier. That it was very popular among the Presbyterians is amply shown by the number of editions which Dr Laing has quoted in his prefatory note to the edition which appears in his Early Metrical Tales, Edinburgh, 1826. This circumstance, he remarks, "might have obtained for it a more favourable regard than it has yet experienced. But," he continues, "when writers who have treated of early Scottish poets are so ungallant as to dismiss a poem of considerable beauty and imagination, as either unworthy of a single passing remark, or as being a nonsensical religious rhapsody, which should be consigned to oblivion-surely this is to be considered either as prejudice on their part, or the want of taste and discernment, so essential in giving a just estimate of the character and genius of our poetical writers." As an exponent of the spirit that animated, and as a record

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III.

All merryness did agravate my pain,
And earthly joys did still increase my woe :
In company I nae ways could remain,
But fled resort and so alone did go.
My silly soul was tossed to and fro
With sundry thoughts whilk troubled me

full sore;

I pressed to pray, but sighs overset me so, I could do nought but sigh, and say no

more.

IV.

The twinkling tears abundantly ran down, My heart was eased when I mourned my fill;

Then I began my lamentation,

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The devil prevails, his forces he does bend, Gif it could be, to wreck Thy children dear;

And said, "O Lord! how long is it Thy But we are Thine, therefore some succour

will

That Thy poor sancts shall be afflicted still?

Alas! how long shall subtle Sathan rage? Make haste, O Lord! Thy promise to fulfill;

Make haste to end our painful pilgrimage.

V.

"Thy silly saints are tossèd to and fro, Awake, O Lord! why sleepest Thou sae lang?

We have nae strength agains our cruel foe, In sighs and sobs now changed is our sang. The world prevails, our enemies are strang, The wicked rage, but we are poor and

wake :1

O show Thyself! with speed revenge our wrang,

send,

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IX.

Make short thir days, even for Thy chosen's "Thou knows our hearts, thou sees our

sake.

VI.

"Lord Jesus come, and save Thy own elect,

For Sathan seeks our simple souls to slay; The wicked world does strangely us infect, Most monstrous sins increases day by day:

1 Weak.

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And went to bed because I thought it Whom would thou have? In what place best :

With heaviness my spreit was sae opprest, I fell on sleep, and sae again, methought, I made my moan, and then my grief increased,

And from the Lord, with tears, I succour sought.

XI.

"Lord Jesus, come," said I, "and end my grief!

My spreit is vext, the captive would be free;

All vice abounds, O send us some relief! I loath to live, I wish dissolved to be: My spreit does long and thirsteth after Thee,

would thou be?

Faint not sae fast in thy adversity, Mourn not sae sair sen mourning may not mend ;

Lift up thy heart, declare thy grief to me, Perchance thy pain brings pleasure in the end."

XIV.

I sighed again, and said, "Alas! for woe!
My grief is great, I can it not declare;
Into this earth I wander to and fro,
Ane pilgrim poor, consumed with sighing

sore;

My sins, alas! increases more and more;
I loathe my life, I irk to wander here;
I long for Heaven, my heritage is there;

As thirsty ground requires ane shower of I long to live with my Redeemer dear."

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Ane angel bright, with visage shining And thou shall have thy heavy heart's

clear,

I Fight.

desire:

Countenance. 2 Dwindling away. 3 Sorrowful.

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