John Skelton

Far may be sought Erst that ye can find So courteous, so kind, As Merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon

With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly,

For the soul of Philip Sparrow, That was late slain at Carrow Among the Nunnes Black, For that sweet soul’s sake And for all sparrows’ souls Set in our bead-rolls,

She is the violet, The daisy delectable, The columbine commendable, The jelofer amiable; For this most goodly flower, This blossom of fresh colour,

If ye have reed de hyperdulia, Than ye know what betokeneth dulia: Than shall ye fynde it fyrme and stable, And to our faithe moche agreable, To worshyppe ymages of sayntes.

Ye cobble and ye clout Holy scripture so about, That people are in great dout And feare leest they be out Of all good Christen order. Thus all thyng ye disorder

I saye, thou madde Marche hare, I wondre howe ye dare Open your janglyng jawes To prech in any clawes, Lyke pratynge poppyng dawes, Agaynst her excellence,

Thou hast to lytell myght Agaynst Englande to fyght.

Twyt, Scot, go kepe thy den. Mell nat with Englyshe men. Thou dyd nothyng but barke At the castell of Warke.

O ye wretched Scottes, Ye puaunt pyspottes, It shalbe your lottes To be knytte up with knottes Of halters and ropes About your traytours throtes.

Englande the flowre Of relucent honowre, In olde commemoration Most royall Englyssh nacion.

The kynges courte Shulde have the excellence; But Hampton Court Hath the preemynence!

Why come ye nat to court? To whyche court? To the kynges courte? Or to Hampton Court?

He ruleth all the roste.

The wolfe from the dore.

By hoke ne by croke.

He knew what is what.

In the spight of his teeth.

For though my ryme be ragged, Tattered and jagged, Rudely rayne beaten, Rusty and moughte eaten, It hath in it some pyth.

The honor of Englond I lernyd to spelle, In dygnyte roiall that doth excelle.

Thy myrrour may be the devyllys ars.

How olde proverbys says, That byrd ys not honest That fylythe hys owne nest.

At Branxton More and Flodden hylles, Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles, Agaynst you gave so sharpe a shower, That of Scotland ye lost the flower.

Contynually I shall remember The mery moneth of September, With the ix day of the same, For then began our myrth and game. So that now I have devysed, And in my mynde I have comprised,