Continually I shall remember The mery moneth of September, With the ix[707] daye of the same, For then began our myrth and game; So that now I haue deuysed, And in my minde I haue comprysed, 70 Of the prowde Scot, kynge Jemmy, To wryte some lyttle tragedy, For no maner consyderacion Of any sorowful lamentacion, But for the special consolacion Of all our royall Englysh nacion. Melpomone,[708] O Muse tragediall, Vnto your grace for grace now I call, To guyde my pen and my pen to enbybe! Illumyn me, your poete and your scrybe, 80 That with myxture of aloes and bytter gall I may compounde confectures for a cordiall, To angre the Scottes and Irysh keteringes withall, That late were discomfect with battayle marcyall. Thalia, my Muse, for you also call I, To touche them with tauntes of your armony, A medley to make of myrth with sadnes, The hartes of England to comfort with gladnes: And now to begyn I wyll me adres, To you rehersynge the somme of my proces. 90 Kynge Jamy, Jemmy, Jocky my jo,[709] Ye[710] summond our kynge,—why dyd ye so? To you nothing it dyd accorde To summon our kynge, your soueraygne lord. A kyng, a sumner![711] it was great wonder: Know ye not suger and salt asonder? Your sumner to saucy, to malapert, Your harrold in armes not yet halfe experte. Ye thought ye dyd yet valyauntly, Not worth thre skyppes of a pye: 100 Syr skyrgalyard, ye were so skyt, Your wyll than ran before your wyt. Your lege ye layd and your aly Your frantick fable not worth a fly, Frenche kynge, or one or other; Regarded ye[712] should your lord, your brother. Trowid ye, Syr Jemy, his nobul grace From you, Syr Scot, would turne his face? With, Gup, Syr Scot of Galawey! Now is your pryde fall to decay. 110 Male vryd was your fals entent For to offende your presydent, Your souerayne lord most reuerent, Your lord, your brother, and your regent. In him is fygured Melchisedec, And ye were disloyall Amalec. He is our noble Scipione,[713] Annoynted kynge; and ye were none, Thoughe ye vntruly your father haue slayne. His tytle is true in Fraunce to raygne; 120 And ye, proud Scot, Dunde, Dunbar, Pardy, ye were his homager, And suter to his parliament: For your vntruth now ar ye shent. Ye bare yourselfe somwhat to bold, Therfore ye lost your copyehold; Ye were bonde tenent to his estate; Lost is your game, ye are checkmate. Vnto the castell of Norram, I vnderstande, to sone ye came. 130 At Branxston more and Flodden hylles, Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles, Agaynst you gaue so sharpe a shower, That of Scotland ye lost the flower. The Whyte Lyon, there rampaunt of moode,