Of Mr George Ruthven the tears and mournings,
Amidst the giddie course of fortune’s turnings,
Upon his dear friend’s death, Mr John Gall,
Where his rare ornaments bear a part, and wretched Gabions all.
FIRST MUSE
Now must I mourn for Gall, since he is gone,
And ye, my Gabions, help me him to mone;
And in your courses sorrow for his sake,
Whose matchless Muse immortal did you make.
Who now shall pen your praise and make you knowne?
By whom now shall your virtues be forth showne?
Who shall declare your worth?-is any able?-
Who dare to meddle with Apelles table?
Ah me! there’s none!-And is there none indeed?
Then must ye mourn of force,-there’s no remeed:
And I for my part, with you in my turne
Shall keep a dolefull comfort whilst ye mourne:
And thus with echoing voice, shall howl and cry-
Gall, sweetest Gall, what ailed thee to die?
Now first my Bowes begin this dolefull song:
No more with clangors let your shafts be flung
In fields abroad, but in my cabine stay,
And help me for to mourn till dying day;
With dust and cobwebs cover all your heads,
And take you to your matins and your beads:
A requiem sing unto that sweetest soul,
Which shines now sainted above other pole.
And ye my clubs, you must no more prepare
To make your balls flee whistling in the air,
But hing your heads, and bow your crooked crags,
And dress you all in sackcloath and in rags,
No more to see the sun, nor fertile fields,
But closely keep your mourning in your bields;
And for your part the trible to you take,
And when you cry, make all your crags to crake,
And shiver when you sing, alas! for Gall!
Ah, if our mourning might thee now recall!
And ye, my loadstones, of Lednochian lakes,
Collected from the loughs, where watrie snakes
Do much abound, take unto you a part,
And mourn for Gall, who lov’d you with his heart;
In this sad dump and melancholick mood,
The burdown ye must bear, not on the flood,
Or frozen watrie plaines, but let your tuning,
Come help me for to weep by mournfull cruning;
And ye the rest my Gabions less and more,
Of noble kind, come help me for to roare!
And of my woefull weeping take a part-
Help to declare the dolour of mine heart:
How can I choose but mourn, when I think on
Our games Olympick-like in times agone?
Chiefly wherein our cunning we did try,
And matchless skill in noble archerie,
In these our days when archers did abound
In Perth, then famous for such pastimes found:
Among the first for archers we were known,
And for that art our skill was loudly blown:
What time Perth’s credit did stand with the best
And bravest archers this land hath possesst;
We spar’d no gaines nor paines for to report
To Perth the worship, by such noble sport:
Witness the Links of Leith, where Cowper, Grahame,
And Stewart won the prize, and brought it home;
And in these games did offer ten to three,
There to contend: Quorum pars magna fui.
I mourn, good Gall, when I think on that stead,
Where yee did hail your shaft unto the head,
And with a strong and steadfast eye and hand,
So valiantly your bow yee did command:
A sliddrie shaft forth of its forks did fling,
Clank gave the bow, the whistling air did ring;
The bowlt did cleave the clouds, and threat the skyes,
And thence down falling to the mark it flies:
Incontinent the aimer gave a token,
The mark was kill’d, the shaft in flinders broken:
Then softly smiling, good Gall, thus quod I,
Now find I time my archerie to try;
And here by solemn vow I undertake,
In token of my love, even for thy sake,
Either to hit the mark, else shall I never
More with these arms of mine use bow and quiver;
Therewith my ligaments I did extend,
And then a noble shaft I did commend
Unto my bow, then firmly fix’t mine eye,
And closely levell’d at Orion’s knee-
A star of greatest magnitude, who ken’d it
So well as I, prays you be not offended;
(For I did use no magick incantation
For to conduct my shaft, I will find cation
Then cleverly my flen soone can I feather;
Upon my left arm was a brace of leather;
And with three fingers haling up the string,
The bow in semicircle did I bring;
With soft and tender lowse out went the shaft,
Amids the clouds the arrow flew aloft:
And as directed by a skilfull hand,
With speedie hand, the steadfast mark it fand;
The aimer gave his signe, furthwith was known,
The shot was mine, the boult in flinders flown;
Above his shaft, in such difficile stead,
Closely I hit the mark upon the head;
Then on the plain we caprel’d wonder fast,
Whereat the people gazing were agast:
With kind embracments did we thurst and thrimble,
(For in these days I was exceeding nimble,)
We leap’t, we danc’t, we loudly laugh’t, we cry’d,
For in the earth such skill was never try’d
In archcrie, as we prov’d in these days,
Whereby we did obtain immortal praise:
Then, gossip Gall, quod I, I dare approve,
Thou hast a trusty token of my love.
What shall be said of other martial games?
None was inlaking from whence bravest stemmes;
Victorious trophees, palmes, and noble pynes,
Olives, and lawrels, such as auncient times
Decor’d the Grecian victors in their playes,
And worthie Romanes in their brave assayes,
For tryal of their strength each match’d with other,
Whose beauty was, sweat mix’d with dust together:
Such exercises did content us more
Than if we had possess’d King Cr
(Henry Adamson)
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