SKELTON LAUREATE AGAINST THE SCOTTES.[699] Agaynst the prowde Scottes clatterynge, That neuer wyll leaue theyr tratlynge: Wan they the felde, and lost theyr kynge? They may well say, fye on that wynnynge! Lo, these fonde sottes And tratlynge Scottes, How thei are blynde In theyr owne mynde, And wyll not know Theyr ouerthrow 10 At Branxton[700] more! They are so stowre, So frantyke mad, They say they had And wan the felde With spere and shelde: That is as trew As blacke is blew And grene is gray. What euer they say, 20 Jemmy is ded And closed in led, That was theyr owne kynge: Fy on that wynnynge! At Floddon[701] hyllys Our bowys, our byllys, Slewe all the floure Of theyr honoure. Are not[702] these Scottys Folys and sottys, 30 Suche boste to make, To prate and crake, To face, to brace, All voyde of grace, So prowde of hart, So ouerthwart, So out of frame, So voyde of shame, As it is enrolde, Wrytten and tolde 40 Within this quayre? Who lyst to[703] repayre, And therin reed, Shall fynde indeed A mad rekenynge, Consyderynge al thynge, That the Scottis may synge[704] Fy on the wynnynge! _When the Scotte lyued._ Joly Jemmy, ye scorneful Scot, Is it come vnto your lot 50 A solempne sumner for to be? It greyth nought for your degre Our kynge of Englande for to syght,[705] Your souerayne lord, our prynce of might: Ye for to sende such a citacion, It shameth all your noughty nacion, In comparyson but kynge Koppynge Vnto our prince, annoynted kynge. Ye play Hob Lobbyn of Lowdean; Ye shew ryght well what good ye can; 60 Ye may be lorde of Locrian,— Chryst sence[706] you with a frying pan!— Of Edingborrow and Saint Ionis towne: Adieu, syr sumner, cast of youre crowne! _When the Scot was slayne._