Oft haive I hard, bot ofter fund it treu,
That courteours kyndnes lasts bot for a vhyle;
Fra once ȝour turnes be sped, vhy then adeu,
Ȝour promeist freindschip passis in exyle.
Bot, Robene, faith, ȝe did me not beguyll:
I hopit ay of ȝou as of the lave.
If thou had wit, thou wald haif mony a wyle
To mak thy self be knaune for a knaive.
Montgomrie, that such hope did once conceave
Of thy guid will, nou finds all is forgotten;
Though not bot kyndnes he did at the craiv,
He finds thy friendship as it rypis is rotten.
The smeikie smeithis cairs not his passit travell,
Bot leivis him lingring, deing of the gravell.
