King James VI and Glamis

I have not written enough about Glamis Castle and the family who have lived in it for over 600 years in this blog, which I hope to remedy. Apart from the host of legends cast within the walls of the castle, its history is fascinating. Not surprisingly for a long-standing enobled family, the Lyons have many royal associations.  The Lyons had royal connections, and indeed royal blood. They descend from a marriage of one of their forebears with the daughter of King Robert II in the late fourteenth century.

King James VI had a more tranquil association with Glamis Castle and its owners than his grandfather, King James V, did. The later, of course, was responsible for burning Lady Glamis and forcibly taking possession of the castle for some time. True, the Master of Glamis was one of those rebel members of the nobility who forcibly took the young king captive near Perth in 1582 and cruelly mocked him, 'Better bairns greet than bearded men'. This was the infamous Ruthven Raid which deprived James VI of his liberty for a year. But the king eventually escaped and did not harbour long-terms hatred for the Lyon kindred of Glamis (though some of those involved in the conspiracy were later executed).

 

  

 A tantalising clue about a little-known aspect of the king’s private life however might be glimpsed in his poem entitled ‘A Dreame on his Mistris Lady Glammis’. The subject of this poem is thought to be Anne Murray, daughter of the king’s companion Sir John Murray, who was later created Earl of Tullibardine.Anne married Patrick Lyon, Lord Glamis, in 1595.

  

 

   The verse speaks of the lady being magically transported to the writer while he dreams and undoubtedly has erotic overtones. Sir John Carey referred to Anne Murray in a letter to Lord Burghley in May 1595 and referred to her explicitly as the king’s mistress, but there is no solid proof of a relationship between the two. In view of his well-known and proven (in my mind at least) proclivities towards young men rather than young women, might this poem be a disingenuous attempt by the monarch that he was as heterosexual as the average upper class man of his day? For those brave enough to wade through King James's verse (I salute you), there may be a clue. Or maybe not. 

 

    A Dreame On His Mistris My Ladie Glammes

Whill as the silent shaddie night

Did with her courtens blacke

Ou'rcover Rheas fruictfull face

And being colde and wacke

By sympathie with mortall braines

Our members make of leade

And steahng all our senses make

Us lye awhile as deade.

Then whill I was in this estate

The God with golden wings,

Who entring at the ports of home

So manie monstres brings.

And changing into sundrie shapes

By strange and subtle slight,

Does make us heare without our eares

And see but eyes of light.

This strange and subtle God, I saye

Of late appear'd to me,

And by the hand my Mistres ledd,

Loe here she is quoth he, 

Whose presence breeds as manie joyes

As absence breeds thee woes 

Loe here the harbour of thy hart

Loe here thy onHe chose 

Loe here she is who makes thee trade

The statelie forcked hill,

Whose pleasant grasse beginnes to fade 

So trampled by thee stll,

Loe here she is who makes thee drinke

The christall silver spring 

Of flying horse and riding foule

As ancient Poets sing,

Loe here the subject and the wings

Of thy high flying verse

That mountes above the flammie vaults

And to the heaven does pearse.

With this me thought she bowed her doune

And joyned the rubies sine,

(That hides her ivorie rankes and smells

Of Nectar) unto mine,

Sine with her soft and silken hands

About my necke she layes

A tablet and an Amethyst

And silent slipps her wayes.

But loe my minde so passion'd was 

My hart so sturr'd withall

With joye extreame, as made them soone

My senses to recall.

And looke how soone from slugglish sleepe

I perfectlie awooke, so

Even at the first (o miracle)

Into my hand I tooke

These tokens hunge about my necke

(As I had dream'd before)

What Deitie (quoth I amaz'd)

For this shall I adore:

Sume God or Angell suirlie hath

This present to me brought,

For if on anie naturall dreames

Hade ravished bene my thought,

Then ather of the humours foure

The cheefe that did abounde.

By sympathie with brethren foure

Wherof was form'd this rounde,

And with the seasons of the yeare

Wolde vexed have my braine.

If bloode domin'd with bloodie jarres

In spring time, and againe.

If cholere raign'd with ravening fires

In sommers pearching heate,

If phlegme did with drowning floods

When Hyades holds there seate,

If melancholie earth and night

With heavie things and blacke,

When frozen Saturne rules with snowe

The place wolde suirlie take:

Or els the things I last hade thought

Hade done or wish'd to be

They hade although imperfectlie

In dreame appear'd to me.

And so by nature hade I dream'd

The thing I dream'd indeede,

For I confesse that Idee oft

My ravish'd minde dois feede,

Bot then how soone I hade awack'd

And Morpheus flowen awaye,

No token hade he left behinde

As now this wedd it laye:

Then counting it sume heavenlie gift

And sent me from above,

I cust me narrowlie to guesse go

What coulde the meaning prove,

And so beganne both up and doime

To tosse, to viewe, to spie —

This tablet and the Amethyst

There secrets for to trie.

Thou Lycian Lord that Deitie

Whome Delphos did adore,

Whose shining coache doe saphirs blewe

And rubies red decore,

The sacred Sisters Monarch greate,

The spirit that did inspire

With oracles the Sybills sage

Inflam'd with heavenlie fire,

O thou that mysteries can reveale 

And future things foreseis

Assist my seeking out of this

And open cleare mine eyes.

The Amethyst in forme of hart

Doeth sign'fie the hart no

And constant love unchangeable

That is upon my part.

And as the colours of this stone

Are purple mix'd with graye.

So flames of love my earthhe parts

Consumes me day by daye. us

The secret vertues that are hidd

Into this pretious stone

Indues me with meete quahties

For serving such a one,

For as this stone by secret force

Can soveraignHe remeade

These daizeled braines whome Bacchus strength

Ou'rcomes as they were deade,

And can preserve us from the harme

Of the envenomed sting

Of poysoned cuppes, that to our tombe

Unt3Tnelie does us bring,

So shall my hart be still preserved

By vertue from above,

From staggering like a drunken man

Or wavering into love:

Bot by this soveraigne antidote

Of her whom still I serve

In spite of all the poysoned lookes

Of Dames I shall not swerve.

And speciallie with courage bolde

This stone can furnish me

That with my conquering hand I may

Enforce my foes to flie.

For suire he can not worthie be

To be accompted deare

By anie Dame that in his brest

A womans hart dois beare.

And therfor for my part I vowe

If as the nmiours be

Of jarrs and broyles, I happen in

Effect the same to see,

I shall not from the enemies sight

To anie part remove,

Unkithing once in honour of

My Mistres and my love:

Bot onlie mot I conquered be

And onelie will I yeelde

iss To Cupids shott, whose fine darts

Resist coulde never sheelde.

And lastlie as this stone hath force

A himter for to aide.

In end to catche his pray, the fruict

Of all his travell made,

So as I am an prentise past

Into that Princelie game.

Whose hounds and horns through rockes and woodes

Makes Echo answer them,

I trust by vertue of this stone

To winne and holde the pray

That prayes on me, and is of all

My passion'd thoughts the stay.

Bot loe I long to turne me to

The tablet made of golde,

And all without and in the same

At length for to beholde.

Of purest golde the tablet made

Which by the fire is fin'd,

Her chastnes pure does represent

In bodie both and mind,

The crawling scores of ameling blacke

That on the golde are wrought.

The divers passions represents

That waiters in her thought.

One of the leaves on utter side

A nacked man does beare,

Whome Phoebus rosts with hote reflexe

And stinging flees doe teare.

Yett sitting in the forrest greene,

As senceles of his harme.

By harmonie of violl sweete

He never irkes to charme

The ravish'd foules and beasts about.

Esteeming so there joye,

As makes him quite for to forgett

His grievous sore anoye.

This man not onehe represents

Her Siren voyce divine,

Wherewith she makes the dullest eares

And hardest harts encline,

Bot as his dittie sayes. To please

The rest he suffers paine.

So she her Princesse serves of love

Without respect of gaine.

The other on the utter side

The Sunne hath shining bright

Into the midst, with stars about

Bot darckned by his light

And as that dittie sayes, As Sunne

Amongst the stars does shine,

So she her sexe surpasseth far

In vertues most divine:

That Sunne of whome I sung before

Whose absence made me flie

Above the skies, Sunne to seeke

Her shaddowe into the.

Bot if into these former verse

I soar'd with Eagle wings,

Then Mistres thaiike your selfe for them

That by your vertue sings.

Bot greatest comfort is to me

To spie the inward part,

Wheras ane hand does holde me thinke

My onelie Mistres hart,

Whill Cupide with his bended bowe

And golden arrowe aime.

To shoote his subtle firie shaft

For pearcing of the same:

Bot that her hand does holde her hart

I take it for to be.

That willingHe she letts her hart

Be shotte into for me.

The inward of the other leafe

It emptie does remaine,

Which if my guesse deceave me not.

Is ordain'd to containe.

The art of sume Apelles fine.

The portraict of her face,

To give unto the workemanship

Of all the rest a grace:

For as the rest does represent

Her qualities most rare.

So shoulde her selfe, though vivelie, no,

Yett best it can be there.

And suire the Gods above they have

Decreed as seemes to me,

That as the tablet and the stone,

Both knitt together be

Even by a string, the tablet like

To her, to me the stone.

So shall our love whill Atrope cutt

The threed, be knitt in one.

Thus have I redd my dreme ye see

With wise Apollos aide,

And if this be the verrie trueth

That I herin have saide,

Then am I gladd of such a guesse,

Bot if I be deceav'd.

And in the opening of a dreame

Have ather dream'd or reav'd

Yett wellcume be a gladd deceate.

For as into my sleepe,

My dreame deceaved me, so my guesse,

In gladnes doth me keepe.

Now may ye see Titan mine.

No distance far of place.

Nor other thoughts can out of me

The thought of you deface,

In absence are ye present still

And ever so in sight,

No wonder is, what Monarch may

Resist a womans might.