(from Music of Scotland 1500-1700)
One yeir begins ane other ends,
Our tyme doth pass and go.
All thus to our instruction tends,
Gif we culd tak it so;
The sommer’s heat, the winter’s cold
Whois seasons lets us sie
Whan youth is gone and we wax old
Lyk flours we fade and die.
Men for the most pairt does rejose
Whan sons are to them born
Wha’s weiping voice bewails thair woes
Our folishnes to scorn.
Thes ar the mesengers to schow
Our tyme is passing fast.
When we decrease still they do grow
Till death us pairt at last.
In spring tyme of our youth we suld
The seeds of learning saw,
Weed furth our vices gif we could,
Our sinful lusts o’erthraw.
Wha in the prime of youth taks pains
Thair service to bestow,
In harvest of his age again
The grapes of grace do grow.
Thus all things creat have an end
Nothing bot fame remains.
Happy is he wha wyslie spends
His time in vertue’s pains.
Bot when the pain is past away
The pleasor sall abide:
Now happy, happy thrice are they
That taks time at the tide.