[32] Many of the prophecies of The Rhymer, Bede, and Merlin were printed in a small volume by Andro Hart at Edinburgh in 1615.
[33] The Red Etin, a giant with three heads, was the subject of a popular story mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_. William Motherwell has a poem “The Etin of Sillarwood.” The Gyre Carlin, or huge old woman, was the gruesome Hecate, or mother-witch, of many peasant stories.
In-to the Calendis of Januarie, Quhen fresche Phebus, be movyng circulair, Frome Capricorne wes enterit in Aquarie, With blastis that the branchis maid full bair, The snaw and sleit perturbit all the air, And flemit[34] Flora frome every bank and bus[35], Throuch supporte of the austeir Eolus.
Efter that I the lang wynteris nycht Had lyne walking[36], in-to my bed, allone, Throuch hevy thocht, that no way sleip I mycht, Rememberyng of divers thyngis gone: So up I rose, and clethit me anone. Be this, fair Tytane, with his lemis[37] lycht, Ouer all the land had spred his baner brycht.
With cloke and hude I dressit me belyve[38], With dowbyll schone, and myttanis on my handis; Howbeit the air was rycht penetratyve, Yit fure I furth, lansing ouirthorte[39] the landis Toward the see, to schorte[40] me on the sandis, Because unblomit was baith bank and braye[41]. And so, as I was passing be the waye,
I met dame Flora, in dule weid dissagysit[42], Quhilk in-to May wes dulce and delectabyll; With stalwart[43] stormis hir sweitnes wes supprisit[44]; Hir hevynlie hewis war turnit in-to sabyll, Quhilkis umquhile[45] war to luffaris amiabyll. Fled frome the froste, the tender flouris I saw Under dame Naturis mantyll lurking law.
The small fowlis in flokkis saw I flee, To Nature makand greit lamentatioun. Thay lychtit doun besyde me on ane tree, Of thair complaynt I had compassioun; And with ane pieteous exclamatioun Thay said, “Blyssit be Somer, with his flouris; And waryit[46] be thow, Wynter, with thy schouris!”
“Allace! Aurora,” the syllie[47] Larke can crye, “Quhare hes thou left thy balmy liquour sweit That us rejosit, we mounting in the skye? Thy sylver droppis ar turnit in-to sleit. O fair Phebus! quhare is thy hoilsum heit? Quhy tholis[48] thow thy hevinlie plesand face With mystie vapouris to be obscurit, allace!