Sad or glad my rallied rhymes,
Sought our dusty papers through,
For the sake of other times
Come to you.
Times and places new we know,
Faces fresh and seasons strange
But the friends of long ago
Do not change.
ERRATUM: Reader, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the
setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the
forty-fourth page, against all right Italianate laws, hath but
thirteen lines withal: add another to thy liking, if thou art a
Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content with what is set
before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is choicely good.
A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC
Dark Lily without blame,
Not upon us the shame,
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,
They, by the Maiden's side,
Victorious fought and died,
One stood by thee that fiery torment through,
Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,
And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.
Once only didst thou see
In artist's imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing
Was in an Archer's hand
From the leal Northern land.
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