%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The Regentis tragedie ending with ane exhortatoun Sempill, Robert University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1570-1570 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/20/2011 30364

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

S124067 James Erle of Murray Regent of Renoun, / Now lyis deid and onleffullie put doun, Roxburghe Ballads Editor None None None None Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 3: 2 The Regentis tragedie ending with ane exhortatoun The Regentis tragedie ending with ane exhortatoun The Regents tragedy ending with an exhortation Sempill, Robert Printer Robert Lekpreuik 1570-1570

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JAmes Erle of Murray Regent of Renoun, Now lyis deid and dulefullie put doun, Murdreist but mercy, murnand for remeid, Quha lost his lyfe in Lythquo with ane loun, Giltles God wait betraist in to that toun, Slane with ane schot and saikles put to deid: Feit be our fais, throw fellonie and feid: Hangman to Hary, now Burrio to hir brother: Weill may this murther manifest the tother. Quhat leid on lyfe wald nocht lament his lose? Wais me to want him, is the commoun voce, For sic ane Prince sall never pure man haif, Tint be ane Tratour, steilling up ane close, Possest in purpois, lyfe for lyfe to cose, Bot na compair, ane Kings Sone to ane knaif, Sen he is gone agane my will to graif, Throw all this Realme I dar weill mak this ruse, Rang nocht his maik sen buryir was the Bruse. To keip gude reule, he raid and tuke na rest, Baith South and North, and sumtyme eist & west, All to decoir our commoun weill ye knaw, Be quhome lat se wes Pirats sa opprest? Or yit the theiffis sa dautonis, dung, and drest? Argyle and Huntlie hid thame baith for aw, And quhen he mycht, he myst nocht in the Law Twyse on the day, and sleipit nocht in sleuth, To se na buddis suld beir thame by the treuth. Of this foule fact suppois our fais be fane, Yit efter Moyses, Josua come agane, To gyde the pepill, gevand the gloir to God: Suld thay succeid that hes him saikles slane? Be war with that, I wald ye war not vane, To haif your waik anis wirryit with the tod, Think ye with ressoun thay suld reule the rod, With double murther maid us all ado? And with our King wald play Cowsauly to? Pray gif ye pleis, I warne yow ye haif neid, To keip our King fra cankrit Kedyochis seid, That daylie wayis Inventis to put him doun, His Grandschir slane at Lythquo gif I leid: His Gudschir thryse hes left this land in deid, Hary at midnycht murdreist in this toun: His Cousing last, and yit thay clame the Crown, Blynd Jok may ges, gif thir be godly deidis, Brunt be yone Bischop in quhome this barret breidis. Cut of that Papist Prothogall of partis, That with his lesingis all the laif pervertes, Syne Joyne your forces to the feildis but feir, Because ye tak your stoutnes all in startis: To Hammiltoun in haist quhill ye haif hartis, Devyse sum way to pay your men of weir, Fra he be gane ye neid nocht gather geir: Fecht weill, and war thame, and wyn the ryches thair And gif ye de, in deid ye neid na mair. Curst be ye baith, bischop and bothwell hauch, For this foule deid, your seid man rak ane sauch, Gif ye twa want the widdie, now thay wrang yow: Lythquo lament, your burges may luke bauch, In beir seid tyme your burrow rudis ly fauch, Cause of this murther laitly maid amang yow, Or gif I trowit it helpit ocht to hang yow, Sa suld ye die: and syne your towne in fyre, Sum part for sythment to asswage our Ire. Over thir twa housis, for thair deids inding, The hand of God dois over thair heidis hing Thame to distroy, I dout not in our dayis, Hepburnis will wraik, for wyrrying of the King, Bot Hammiltounis fy, this was ane foular thing: Is this your ferme Religioun? yais? yais? Sic tyme sall cum I trow as Thomas sayis: Hirdm[e]n sall hunt yow up throw Garranis gyll Castand thair Patlis and lat the pleuch stand still.
Apperandly thir plaigis ar powrit out, To wraik this warld, and wait ye quhair about? Because we want na vice under the hevin: Sen double murther markis to reule the rout, With Niniveitis lat us ga cry and schout, For to retreit yone sentence Justly gevin, Yit thow gude Lord that Judgis all thingis evin, Seand the perrell that over the pepill standis, Lat nocht thair blude be socht at saikles handis. Now Lordis and Lairdis assemblit in this place, Over lang we talk of Tragedeis allace, Away with cair, with confort now conclude: As gude in paper as speik it in your face, Gif murtherars for geir get ony grace, Ye will be schent, think on I say for gude Sen art and part, ar gyltie of his blude: Quhy suld ye feir, or favour thame for fleiching? Ye hard yourself, quhat Knox spak at the preiching. First on the feildis mak schortly to lat se, We want bot ane, and quhat the war ar we? Sen God wes pleist to pas him out of pyne, All men on mold ar markit for to de, With tyme and place appointit, sa wes he: Lat nocht in cair your curages declyne, For want of ane I wald nocht all suld tyne, Gar reid at Roxburgh quhen the King wes slane, And yit ane woman wan the hous agane. Sen than be wemen douchtie deidis wer done, Barronis be blyith, and hald your hartis abone, And lat us heir quhairfoir ye hapnit hidder: Thay ar na partie, and ye speid yow sone, Albeit that boyd be daylie in Denone, Lang or Argyle be gadderit in togidder, Quhen all is done, the counsall may considder, Quhat is the maist yone murtheraris may do, Suppois that Huntlie wald cum help thame to. Had we ane heid wald stoutly undertakit, The Barronis sayis thay suld be bauldly bakit. Mycht thay for tyritnes travell of thir tounis: Quhy stand ye aw of Tratouriris twyse detractit? Think ye not schame to heir your Lordschipis lakit? Sum feiris thair flesche, sum grevis to gadder cronuis Sum happis thair heids, sum belttis thame up in gounis Luke gif your partie prydis thame in thair spurring, Reipand the feildis and fryis not in thair furring. Wa worth the wyfis that fostred yow and fed, Ye dow not ly unles ye haif ane bed, Keip yow fra cauld, haif claith within your scho: I think greit ferly how ye can be red, Or fray at thame, that last befoir yow fled, Wantand thair Quene, syne God agane thame to, Quhy ly ye heir with lytill thing ado? The Barronis biddis yow schortly byde or gang, Curage decayis fra Scottis men tarie lang Have Lyounis lukis, and than mak me ane lear, Be Hanniballis, and heis your hartis sum hear, Bot keip not capua quhil yone Knaifis incluse yow, He neidis not work, that hes ane gude oversear, Nane neid ye ferch, swa that your hartis war frear, Bot be my saule my self culd never ruse yow: I knaw weill for this cryme, Christ sall accuse yow, For spairing Agag, Saull wes puneist sair: Swa sall he yow, I dar nocht say na mair. The Lord of Hostes that hevin & eirth commandis, To keip our King from all unhappy handis, The Quene of Ingland and hir Counsall to: Ye feir the Frenchemen suld overlay thir landis, Bot I heir say be sum that understandis, The Doctouris doutis bot thay haif mair ado: Our Quene is keipit straitly, thair standis scho: Ingland will help yow, and ye help your sellis, And be the contrair craif thame na thing ellis.
This fair ye weill, I flait not to offend yow, In sempill veirs this Schedull that I send yow Beseikand yow to schort it gif ye may, Steill ye away, the wyfis will vilipend yow And gif ye byde the burrowis will commend yow, Best wer I think mycht we prevene yone day Thair Semblis beis on Sonday I heir say, In Glasgow towne thinkand to fecht or fle: It lukis weill, thair, ye get na mair of me. FINIS. The Tragedeis Lenvoy. AS men recordis, in deid my Lordis, I schrink not for to schaw: Suppois ye crak, ye ly abak, And lybellis be the Law. Ye mak not to, as men suld do, I trow ye stand sum aw: Suppois ye hecht, to se yow fecht, That day will never daw. Is na remeid, fra he be deid, Na man to seik ane mendis? Or quha is heir, dar brek ane speir, Upon yone lymmeris lendis? Ye dar not mum, quhill Saidlar cum, To se quhat Ingland sendis: Thinkand to say it, and ay delay it, And swa the mater endis. With sychis and sobbis, and beltit robbis, Ye counterfite the dule: Quhat douchtie deidis, to weir sic weidis, Except it wer ane fule. Mak of the towne, and cow thame downe, Now or your curage cule, For Maddie sayis, byde ye aucht dayis, Ye be not thair quhill Yule. Is this the thing, quha gydis the King. Ye can not all aggre: Now fy for schame, feche Levenox hame, Ye haif nane narer nor he. Gif he want grace to gyde that place, Cheis outher twa or thre: Than war I fane, bot all in vane, To wis and will not be. And sum thair bene, waittis on the Quene, Bot gaip ay quhill thay get hir: And war scho heir, I tak na feir, The Feynd aby we set hir. For we ar now, als stark I trow, As farnyer quhen we met hir: Quhen all is done, thay start over sone, To boist and not the better. I think it best, ye tak na rest, Gif ye durst under tak it: And we be trew, we ar anew, Ye sal be bauldly bakit. Bot sen I se it will not be, That meter will not mak it: The Feynd mak cair, I say na mair, I rew that ever I spak it.
FINIS. Quod Robert Sempill. Imprentit at Edinburgh be Robert Lekpreuik. Anno. Do. 1570.