Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The weddir is warme and fair
And the grene woid rycht neir us by
To walk atour (over) all quhair (everywhere);
Thair ma na janglour us espy
That is to lufe contrair;
Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I
Unsene we ma repair.
In her turn Makyne is no longer willing; she laughs now, and he weeps, and she leaves him in solitude under a rock, with his sheep. This is a lamentable ending; but let us not sorrow overmuch; on these pathless moors people are sure to meet, and since they quarrelled and parted for ever, in the fifteenth century, Robin and Makyne have met many times.
Another day, Henryson has a dream, after the fashion of the Middle Ages. In summer-time, among the flowers, a personage appears to him,
His hude of scarlet, bordowrit weill with silk.
In spite of the dress he is a Roman: "My native land is Rome;" and this Roman turns out to be Æsop, "poet laureate;" there is no room for doubt: we are in the Middle Ages. Æsop recites his fables in such a new and graceful manner, with such a pleasing mixture of truth and fancy, that he never told them better, not even when he was a Greek slave, and saved his head by his wit.
Henryson takes his time; he observes animals and nature, and departs as much as possible from the epigrammatic form common to most fabulists. The story of the "uplandis Mous and the burges Mous," so often related, has never been better told than by Henryson, and this can be affirmed without forgetting La Fontaine.
The two mice are sisters; the elder, a mouse of importance, established in town, well fed on flour and cheese, remembers, one day, her little sister, and starts off at dusk to visit her. She follows lonely paths at night, creeps through the moss and heather of the interminable Scottish bogs, and at last arrives. The dwelling strikes her as strangely miserable, frail, and dark; a poor little thief like the younger sister does not care much about burning dips. Nevertheless, great is the joy at meeting; the "uplandis mous" produces her choicest stores; the "burges mous" looks on, unable to quite conceal her astonishment. Is it not nice? inquires the little sister. Excuse me, replies the other, but:
Thir widderit (withered) peis and nuttis, or thay be bord,
Will brek my teith and make my wame full sklender....
Sister, this victuall and your royal feist
May well suffice unto ane rurall beist.
Lat be this hole, and cum in-to my place,
I sall to yow schaw be experience
My Gude-fryday is better nor your Pace (Easter).