Ane Aigit Man, Twyss Fourty Yeiris, Poem by Walter Kennedy

Ane aigit man, twyss fourty yeiris,
Eftir þe haly dayis of Yule,
I hard him say, amangis þe Freiris
Of Ordour Gray, makand grit dule,
Rycht as he wer a furiuss fule,
Oft syiss he sicht, and said, Allace!
Be Chryst, my cair ma nevir cule,
Þat evir I schervit Mowþ-þankless!
Þroch ignorance and foly youþ
My preterit tyme I wald nevir spair,
Plesans to put in to þat mowþ,
Quhill Eild said, Fule, latt be þy fair:
And now my heid is quhyt and hair,
For feding of þat fowmart face,
Quhairfoir I murn bayþ laitt and air,
Þat evir I schervit Mowþ-þankless.
Gold and silver that I micht gett,
Brochis, beisandis, robbis and ringis,
Frely to gife I wald nocht lett,
To pleiss þa mullis attour all þingis.
Rycht as þe swan for sorrow singis
Befoir hir deid ane littell space,
Rycht so do I, and my handis wringis,
Þat evir I schervit Mowþ-þankless.
Bettir it war ane man to serf,
Wiþ wirchep and honour undir a scheild,
Nor hir to pleiss, þocht þow suld sterf,
Þat will nocht luke on þe in eild.
Fra þat þow haif no hair to heild
Thy heid fra harmyng þat it hess,
Quhen pen and purss and all is peild,
Tak þair a meiss of Mowþ-þankless.
And in example it may be sene,
Þe grund of trewþ quha vndirstude,
Fra in þy bag þow beir þyne ene,
Þow gettis no grace, bott for þy gud,
At Venus closet, for to conclude;
Call ye nocht þiss ane kankert caiss?
Now God help, and þe Haly Rude,
And keip all men fra Mowþ-þankless.
O brukill yowþ, in tyme behald,
And in þyne hairt þir wirdis graif,
Or þy complexioun gadder cald,
Amend þy miss, þy self to saif,
Þe hevynis bliss gif þow wilt haif,
And of þy gilt remit and grace.
All þis I hard ane auld man raif,
Eftir þe Yule, of Mowþ-þankless.