LAMENT FOR THE MAKARIS
Quhen he wes seik
I THAT in heill1 wes and glaidnes
Am trublit now with gret seiknes
And feblit with infirmitie;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Feynd is sle;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The stait of man dois change and vary, Now sound, now seik, now blyth, now sary, Now dans and mirry, now like to dee; Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No stait in erd heir standis sickir; 2
As with the wynd wavis the wickir
So wavis this warldis vanite;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Onto the ded gois all estatis,
Princis, prelotis, and potestatis,
Baith riche and pur of all degre;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
2 Sure.
He takis the kynchtis in-to feild,
Anarmit vnder helme and scheild;
Wictour he is at all melle;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strang vnmercifull tyrand
Takis on the moderis breist sowkand
The bab full of benignite;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour,1
The capitane closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewte;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence,2
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awfull strak may no man fle;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art magicianis, and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicians, and theologgis,
Thame helpis no conclusionis sle;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medecyne the most practicianis,
Lechis, surrigianis, and phisicianis,
Thame-self fra ded may not supple;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the laif
Playis heir ther padyanis,5 syne gois to graif;
4 Poets. 5 Pageants.
Sparit is nocht ther faculte;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He hes done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flouir,
The monk of Bery and Grower all thre
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The gude Syr Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrik, Heryot, et Wyntoun
He hes tane out of this cuntre;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That scorpioun fell hes done infek
Maister Iohne Clerk and James Afflek
Fra balat making and trigidë;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Allace, that he nought with ws lewit
Schir Mungo Lokert of the Le!
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eik he has tane,
That maid the anteris of Gawane;
Schir Gilbert Hay endit has he;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind Hary et Sandy Traill
Slaine with his schot of mortall haill,
Quhilk Patrik Johnistoun myght nought fle;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He hes reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luf so lifly write,
So schort, so quyk, of sentence hie;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He hes tane Roull of Aberdene,
And gentill Roull of Corstorphin;
Two bettir fallowis did no man se;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In Dunfermelyne he has done rovne With gude Maister Robert Henrisoun; Schir Iohne the Ros enbrast hes he; Timor Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of aw,
Gud gentill Stobo and Quintyne Schaw,
Of quham all wichtis hes pete;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Gud Maister Walter Kennedy
In poynt of dede lyis veraly;
Gret reuth it wer that so suld be;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he has all my brether tane
He will naught lat me lif alane;
On forse I man his nyxt pray be;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen for the deid remeid is non,
Best is that we for deid dispone,
Eftir our deid that lif may we;
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
WILLIAM DUNBAR.
MY MYNDE TO ME A KYNGDOME IS
My mynde to me a kyngdome is;
Such preasente joyes therein I fynd,
That it excells all other blisse
That earth affords or growes by kynde:
Thoughe muche I wante which moste would have Yet still my mynde forbiddes to crave.
No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
No force to winne the victorye,
No wilye wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feede a loving eye;
To none of these I yielde as thrall:
For why? My mynde doth serve for all.
I see how plenty (surfeits) ofte,
And hasty clymers soon do fall;
I see that those which are alofte,
Mishapp doth threaten moste of all;
They get with toyle, they keepe with feare;
Such cares my mynde could never beare.
Content to live, this is my staye,
I seeke no more than maye suffyse;
I presse to beare no haughty swaye;
Look what I lack, my mynde supplies:
Lo, thus I triumph like a kynge,
Content with that my mynde doth bringe.
|