The praise of Age
Yowth
Quhen
fair
Flora
the
godes
of
the
flowris
Baith
firth
and
feildis
freschely
had
ourfret
And
perly
droppis
of
the
balmy
schowris
Thir
widdis
grene
had
with
thair
water
wet,
Movand
allone
in
mornyng
myld
I
met
A
mirry
man
that
all
of
mirth
cowth
mene,
Singand
this
sang
that
richt
sweitly
wes
sett.
“O
yowth,
be
glaid
into
thy
flouris
grene.”
Aige
I
lukit
furth
a
litill
me
befoir.
I
saw
a
cative
on
a
club
cumand
With
cheikis
lene
and
lyart
lokis
hoir,
His
ene
was
how,
his
voce
was
hes
hostand,
Wallowit
richt
wan
and
waik
as
ony
wand.
Ane
bill
he
beure
upoun
his
breist
abone
In
letteris
leill
but
lyis
with
this
legand,
“O
yowth,
thy
flowris
fedis
fellone
sone.”
Yowth
This
yungman
lap
upoun
the
land
full
licht
And
marvellit
mekle
of
his
misdome
maid.
“Waldin
I
am,”
quod
he,
“and
woundir
wicht
With
bran
as
bair
and
breist
burly
and
braid
Na
growme
on
ground
my
gairdone
may
degraid
Nor
of
my
pith
may
pair
of
wirth
a
prene.
My
face
is
fair,
my
fegour
will
not
faid.
O
yowith,
be
glaid
into
thy
flowris
grene.”
Aige
This
senyeour
sang
bot
with
a
sobir
stevin.
Schakand
his
berd
he
said,
“My
bairne,
lat
be.
I
wes
within
thir
sextie
yeiris
and
sevin
Ane
freik
on
fold
als
frak,
forsy,
and
fre,
Als
glaid,
als
gay,
als
ying,
als
yaip
as
ye
Bot
now
tha
dayis
ourdrevin
ar
and
done.
Luke
thow
my
laithly
luking
gif
I
le.
O
yowth,
thy
flowris
fadis
fellone
sone.”
Yowth
Ane
uthir
vers
yit
this
yungman
cowth
sing,
“At
luvis
law
a
quhyle
I
think
to
leit,
In
court
to
cramp
clenely
in
my
clething
And
luke
amangis
thir
lusty
ladeis
sweit
Of
mariage
to
mell
with
mowis
meit
In
secreit
place
quhair
we
ma
not
be
sene
And
so
with
birdis
blythly
my
baillis
beit,
O
yowth,
be
glaid
into
thi
flowris
grene.”
Aige
This
awstrene
man
gaif
answer
angirly.
“For
thy
cramping
thow
salt
baith
cruke
and
cowre,
Thy
fleschely
lust
thow
salt
also
defy
And
pane
thee
sall
put
fra
paramour.
Than
will
no
bird
be
blyth
of
thee
in
bouir.
Quhen
thy
manheid
sall
mynnis
as
the
mone,
Thow
sall
assay
gif
that
my
sang
be
soure.
O
yowth,
thy
flowris
fadis
fellone
sone.”
Yowth
This
mirry
man
of
mirth
yit
movit
moir.
“My
corps
is
clene
withowt
corruptioun,
My
self
is
sound
but
seiknes
or
but
soir,
My
wittis
fyve
in
dew
proportioun,
My
curage
is
of
clene
complexioun,
My
hairt
is
haill,
my
levar
and
my
splene,
Thairfoir
to
reid
this
roll
I
haif
ressoun,
O
yowth,
be
glaid
into
thy
flowris
grene.”
Aige
The
bevir
hair
said
to
this
berly
berne,
“This
breif
thow
sall
obey
sone,
be
thow
bald,
Thy
stait,
thy
strenth
thocht
it
be
stark
and
sterne,
The
feveris
fell
and
eild
sall
gar
thee
fald,
Thy
corps
sall
clyng,
thy
curage
sall
wax
cald,
Thy
helth
sall
hynk
and
tak
a
hurt
bot
hone,
Thy
wittis
fyve
sall
wane
thocht
thow
not
wald.
O
yowth,
thy
flowris
fedis
fellone
sone.”
This
galyart
grutchit
and
began
to
greif,
He
on
his
wayis
wrethly
went
but
wene
This
lene
awld
man
luche
not
bot
tuk
his
leif
And
I
abaid
undir
the
levis
grene.
Of
the
sedullis,
the
suthe
quhen
I
had
sene,
On
trewth
me
thocht
thay
trevist
in
thair
tone:
“O
yowth,
be
glaid
into
thy
flowris
grene.”
“O
yowth,
thy
flowris
faidis
fellone
sone.”
Robert Henryson
RoBERT HENRYSON, thc charming fabulist, Chaucer's aptest and brightest schoiar, aimost nothing is known. David Laing conjectures him to have been born about 1425, to have been educated at some foreign university, and to have died towards the ciosing years of the fifteenth century. It is certain that in 1462, being then * in Artibus Liceniiatus et in Decretis Bacchaiarius,' he was incorporated of the University of Glasgow; and that he was afterwards schooimaster in Dunferraline, and worked there as a notary-pubiic aiso.