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Lament For The Makers By William Dunbar

Lament For The Makers by William Dunbar, illustration
Scene of Lamentation, Miniature, France, probably Paris, around 1460

Lament For The Makers

By William Dunbar

I that in heill wes and gladnes,
Am trublit now with gret seiknes,
And feblit with infermite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The stait of man dois change and vary,
Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,
Now dansand mery, now like to dee;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

No stait in erd heir standis sickir;
As with the wynd wavis the wickir,
Wavis this warldis vanite.
Timor mortis conturbat me.

On to the ded gois all estatis,
Princis, prelotis, and potestatis,
Baith riche and pur of al degre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knychtis in to feild,
Anarmit under helme and scheild;
Victour he is at all mellie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That strang unmercifull tyrand
Takis, on the moderis breist sowkand,
The bab full of benignite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,
The capitane closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He sparis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awfull strak may no man fle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis, and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Thame helpis no conclusionis sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In medicyne the most practicianis,
Lechis, surrigianis, and phisicianis,
Thame self fra ded may not supple;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

I se that makaris amang the laif
Playis heir ther pageant, syne gois to graif;
Sparit is nocht ther faculte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes done petuously devour,
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bery, and Gower, all thre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The gude Syr Hew of Eglintoun,
And eik Heryot, and Wyntoun,
He hes tane out of this cuntre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell hes done infek
Maister Johne Clerk, and Jame Afflek,
Fra balat making and tragidie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he hes berevit;
Allace! that he nocht with us levit
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 hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes Blind Hary and Sandy Traill
Slaine with his schour of mortall haill,
Quhilk Patrik Johnestoun myght nocht 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 Dumfermelyne he hes done roune
With Maister Robert Henrisoun;
Schir Johne the Ros enbrast hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

And he hes 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 hes all my brether tane,
He will nocht lat me lif alane,
On forse I man his nyxt pray be;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen for the deid remeid is none,
Best is that we for dede dispone,
Eftir our deid that lif may we;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

 

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Done is a battle by William Dunbar

Done is a battle by William Dunbar
William Dunbar, Done is a bottle. Illustration – a miniature from the Chansonnier Provençal (1250-1300), Bibliothèque Nationale de France (BNF Français 854)

Done is a battle on the dragon black,
Our champion Christ confoundit has his force;
The yetis of hell are broken with a crack,
The sign triumphal raisit is of the cross,
The devillis trymmillis with hiddous voce,
The saulis are borrowit and to the bliss can go,
Christ with his bloud our ransonis dois indoce:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

Dungan is the deidly dragon Lucifer,
The cruewall serpent with the mortal stang;
The auld kene tiger, with his teith on char,
Whilk in a wait has lyen for us so lang,
Thinking to grip us in his clawis strang;
The merciful Lord wald nocht that it were so,
He made him for to failye of that fang.
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

He for our saik that sufferit to be slane,
And lyk a lamb in sacrifice was dicht,
Is lyk a lion risen up agane,
And as a gyane raxit him on hicht;
Sprungen is Aurora radious and bricht,
On loft is gone the glorious Apollo,
The blissful day departit fro the nicht:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

The grit victour again is rissen on hicht,
That for our querrell to the deth was woundit;
The sun that wox all pale now shynis bricht,
And, derkness clearit, our faith is now refoundit;
The knell of mercy fra the heaven is soundit,
The Christin are deliverit of their wo,
The Jowis and their errour are confoundit:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

The fo is chasit, the battle is done ceis,
The presone broken, the jevellouris fleit and flemit;
The weir is gon, confermit is the peis,
The fetteris lowsit and the dungeon temit,
The ransoun made, the prisoneris redeemit;
The field is won, owrecomen is the fo,
Dispuilit of the treasure that he yemit:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

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A Ballad of Our Lady (Ave Maria, gracia plena)

A Ballad of Our Lady (Ave Maria, gracia plena)

A Ballad of Our Lady (Ave Maria, gracia plena)

Hale, sterne superne, hale in eterne,
In Godis sicht to schyne!
Lucerne in derne for to discerne
Be glory and grace devyne;
Hodiern, modern, sempitern,
Angelicall regyne!
Our tern inferne for to dispern,
Helpe, rialest rosyne.
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Haile, fresche floure femynyne!
Yerne us guberne, virgin matern,
Of reuth baith rute and ryne.Haile, yhyng, benyng, fresche flurising!
Haile, Alphais habitakle!
Thy dyng ofspring maid us to syng
Befor His tabernakle.
All thing maling we doune thring
Be sicht of His signakle,
Quhilk King us bring unto His ryng
Fro dethis dirk umbrakle.
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Haile, moder and maide but makle!
Bricht syng, gladyng our languissing
Be micht of thi mirakle.Haile, bricht be sicht in Hevyn on hicht!
Haile, day sterne orientale!
Our licht most richt in clud of nycht
Our dirknes for to scale.
Hale, wicht in ficht, puttar to flicht
Of fendis in battale!
Haile, plicht but sicht! Hale, mekle of mycht!
Haile, glorius Virgin, hale!
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Haile, gentill nychttingale!
Way stricht, cler dicht, to wilsome wicht
That irke bene in travale.

Hale, qwene serene! Hale, most amene!
Haile, hevinlie hie emprys!
Haile, schene unseyne with carnale eyne!
Haile, ros of Paradys!
Haile, clene bedene ay till conteyne!
Haile, fair fresche flour delyce!
Haile, grene daseyne! Hale, fro the splene,
Of Jhesu genitrice!
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Thow baire the Prince of Prys;
Our teyne to meyne and ga betweyne
As humile oratrice.

Hale, more decore than of before,
And swetar be sic sevyne,
Our glore forlore for to restore
Sen thow art qwene of Hevyn!
Memore of sore, stern in aurore,
Lovit with angellis stevyne;
Implore, adore, thow indeflore,
To mak our oddis evyne.
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
With lovingis lowde ellevyn.
Quhill store and hore my youth devore,
Thy name I sall ay nevyne.

Empryce of prys, imperatrice,
Bricht polist precious stane;
Victrice of vyce, hie genitrice
Of Jhesu, Lord Soverayne:
Our wys pavys fro enemys
Agane the Feyndis trayne;
Oratrice, mediatrice, salvatrice,
To God gret suffragane!
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Haile, sterne meridiane!
Spyce, flour delice of Paradys
That baire the gloryus grayne.

Imperiall wall, place palestrall,
Of peirles pulcritud;
Tryumphale hall, hie trone regall
Of Godis celsitud;
Hospitall riall, the Lord of all
Thy closet did include;
Bricht ball cristall, ros virginall,
Fulfillit of angell fude.
Ave Maria, gracia plena!
Thy birth has with His blude
Fra fall mortal originall
Us raunsound on the Rude.

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The Amendis to the Telyouris and Sowtaris for the Turnament maid on thame

The Amendis to the Telyouris and Sowtaris for the Turnament maid on thame

The Amendis to the Telyouris and Sowtaris for the Turnament maid on thame

by William Dunbar (1450-1513 or 1530)

 

Betuix twell houris and ellevin,
I dremed ane angell came fra Hevin
With plesand stevin sayand on hie,
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

In Hevin hie ordand is your place,
Aboif all Sanctis in grit solace,
Nixt God grittest in dignitie:
Tailyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

The caus to yow is nocht unkend,
That God mismakkis ye do amend,
Be craft and grit agilitie:
Tailyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

Sowtaris, with schone weill maid and meit,
Ye mend the faltis of ill maid feit,
Quhairfoir to Hevin your saulis will fle;
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

Is nocht in all this fair a flyrok,
That hes upoun his feit a wyrok,
Knowll tais, nor mowlis in no degrie,
Bot ye can hyd thame: blist be ye.

And ye tailyouris, with weil maid clais
Can mend the werst maid man that gais,
And mak him semely for to se:
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

Thocht God mak ane misfassonit man,
Ye can him all schaip new agane,
And fassoun him bettir be sic thre:
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

Thocht a man haif a brokin bak,
Haif he a gude telyour, quhatt rak,
That can it cuver with craftis slie:
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

Off God grit kyndnes may ye clame,
That helpis his peple fra cruke and lame,
Supportand faltis with your supple:
Tailyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

In erd ye kyth sic mirakillis heir,
In Hevin ye salbe Sanctis full cleir,
Thocht ye be knavis in this cuntre:
Telyouris and Sowtaris, blist be ye.

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      To the City of London by William Dunbar

      To the City of London

      by William Dunbar

      London, thou art of town{.e}s A per se.
      Soveraign of cities, semeliest in sight,
      Of high renoun, riches, and royaltie;
      Of lordis, barons, and many goodly knyght;
      Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
      Of famous prelatis in habitis clericall;
      Of merchauntis full of substaunce and myght:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troy Novaunt,
      Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy,
      In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant,
      Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure, and of joy,
      A richer restith under no Christen roy;
      For manly power, with craftis naturall,
      Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie,
      Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;
      Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie;
      Of royall cities rose and geraflour;
      Empresse of town{.e}s, exalt in honour;
      In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;
      Swete paradise precelling in pleasure:
      London, thow art the floure of Cities all.

      Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne,
      Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,
      Under thy lusty wallys renneth down,
      Where many a swanne doth swymme with wyngis fare;
      Where many a barge doth saile, and row with are,
      Where many a ship doth rest with toppe-royall.
      O! towne of townes, patrone and not-compare:
      London, thou art the floure of Cities all.

      Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white
      Been merchauntis full royall to behold;
      Upon thy stretis goth many a semely knyght
      In velvet gownes and cheyn{.e}s of fyne gold.
      By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old
      May be the hous of Mars victoryall,
      Whos artillary with tonge may not be told:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Strong be thy wallis that about the standis;
      Wise be the people that within the dwellis;
      Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis;
      Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis;
      Riche be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis;
      Fair be thy wives, right lovesom, white and small;
      Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis:
      London, thow art the flour of Cities all.

      Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce,
      With swerd of justice the rulith prudently.
      No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce
      In dignytie or honoure goeth to hym nye.
      He is exampler, lood{.e}-ster, and guye;
      Principall patrone and roose orygynalle,
      Above all Maires as maister moost worthy:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      —————

      The End

      And that’s the End of the Poem

      © Poetry Monster, 2021.

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      Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)

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      To a Lady by William Dunbar

      To a Lady

      by William Dunbar

      SWEET rois of vertew and of gentilness,
      Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
      Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,
      And everie vertew that is wenit dear,
      Except onlie that ye are mercyless

      Into your garth this day I did persew;
      There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew;
      Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne,
      And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene;
      Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew.

      I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne,
      Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene;
      Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine
      That I would make to plant his root againe,–
      So confortand his levis unto me bene.

      —————

      The End

      And that’s the End of the Poem

      © Poetry Monster, 2021.

      Poems by topic and subject.

      Poetry Monster — the ultimate repository of world poetry.

      Poetry Monster — the multilingual library of poetic works. Here you’ll find original poems, poetry translations, ancient verses, ballads and even folk tales.

      Poetry Monster (or even The Poetry Monster) — is also an international multilingual community of poets and poetry connoisseurs. Join us:

      Register.

      Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)

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      On the Nativity of Christ by William Dunbar

      On the Nativity of Christ

      by William Dunbar

      RORATE coeli desuper!
      Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!
      For now is risen the bricht day-ster,
      Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:
      The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris,
      Surmounting Phebus in the Est,
      Is cumin of his hevinly touris:
      Et nobis Puer natus est.

      Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis,
      Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir,
      And all ye hevinly operationis,
      Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir,
      Fire, erd, air, and water cleir,
      To Him gife loving, most and lest,
      That come in to so meik maneir;
      Et nobis Puer natus est.

      Synnaris be glad, and penance do,
      And thank your Maker hairtfully;
      For he that ye micht nocht come to
      To you is cumin full humbly
      Your soulis with his blood to buy
      And loose you of the fiendis arrest–
      And only of his own mercy;
      Pro nobis Puer natus est.

      All clergy do to him inclyne,
      And bow unto that bairn benyng,
      And do your observance divyne
      To him that is of kingis King:
      Encense his altar, read and sing
      In holy kirk, with mind degest,
      Him honouring attour all thing
      Qui nobis Puer natus est.

      Celestial foulis in the air,
      Sing with your nottis upon hicht,
      In firthis and in forrestis fair
      Be myrthful now at all your mycht;
      For passit is your dully nicht,
      Aurora has the cloudis perst,
      The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht,
      Et nobis Puer natus est.

      Now spring up flouris fra the rute,
      Revert you upward naturaly,
      In honour of the blissit frute
      That raiss up fro the rose Mary;
      Lay out your levis lustily,
      Fro deid take life now at the lest
      In wirschip of that Prince worthy
      Qui nobis Puer natus est.

      Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht!
      Regions of air mak armony!
      All fish in flud and fowl of flicht
      Be mirthful and mak melody!
      All Gloria in excelsis cry!
      Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,–
      He that is crownit abone the sky
      Pro nobis Puer natus est!

      —————

      The End

      And that’s the End of the Poem

      © Poetry Monster, 2021.

      Poems by topic and subject.

      Poetry Monster — the ultimate repository of world poetry.

      Poetry Monster — the multilingual library of poetic works. Here you’ll find original poems, poetry translations, ancient verses, ballads and even folk tales.

      Poetry Monster (or even The Poetry Monster) — is also an international multilingual community of poets and poetry connoisseurs. Join us:

      Register.

      Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)

      Categories
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      Lament for the Makers by William Dunbar

      Lament for the Makers

      by William Dunbar

      I THAT in heill was and gladness
      Am trublit now with great sickness
      And feblit with infirmitie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Our plesance here is all vain glory,
      This fals world is but transitory,
      The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      The state of man does change and vary,
      Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
      Now dansand mirry, now like to die:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      No state in Erd here standis sicker;
      As with the wynd wavis the wicker
      So wannis this world’s vanitie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
      Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
      Baith rich and poor of all degree:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He takis the knichtis in to the field
      Enarmit under helm and scheild;
      Victor he is at all mellie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      That strong unmerciful tyrand
      Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
      The babe full of benignitie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He takis the campion in the stour,
      The captain closit in the tour,
      The lady in bour full of bewtie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He spairis no lord for his piscence,
      Na clerk for his intelligence;
      His awful straik may no man flee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
      Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
      Them helpis no conclusionis slee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      In medecine the most practicianis,
      Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
      Themself from Death may not supplee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      I see that makaris amang the lave
      Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
      Sparit is nocht their facultie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He has done petuously devour
      The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
      The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
      Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
      He has tane out of this cuntrie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      That scorpion fell has done infeck
      Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
      Fra ballat-making and tragedie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
      Alas! that he not with us levit
      Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
      That made the anteris of Gawaine;
      Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
      Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
      Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He has reft Merseir his endite,
      That did in luve so lively write,
      So short, so quick, of sentence hie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
      And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
      Two better fallowis did no man see:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
      With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
      Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      And he has now tane, last of a,
      Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
      Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Good Maister Walter Kennedy
      In point of Death lies verily;
      Great ruth it were that so suld be:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Sen he has all my brether tane,
      He will naught let me live alane;
      Of force I man his next prey be:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      Since for the Death remeid is none,
      Best is that we for Death dispone,
      After our death that live may we:–
      Timor Mortis conturbat me.

      —————

      The End

      And that’s the End of the Poem

      © Poetry Monster, 2021.

      Poems by topic and subject.

      Poetry Monster — the ultimate repository of world poetry.

      Poetry Monster — the multilingual library of poetic works. Here you’ll find original poems, poetry translations, ancient verses, ballads and even folk tales.

      Poetry Monster (or even The Poetry Monster) — is also an international multilingual community of poets and poetry connoisseurs. Join us:

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      Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)

      Categories
      Poetry Monster

      In Honour of the City of London by William Dunbar

      In Honour of the City of London

      by William Dunbar

      LONDON, thou art of townes A per se.
      Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,
      Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;
      Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
      Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
      Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;
      Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt,
      Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy;
      In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant,
      Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy,
      A richer restith under no Christen roy;
      For manly power, with craftis naturall,
      Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie,
      Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;
      Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie;
      Of royall cities rose and geraflour;
      Empress of townes, exalt in honour;
      In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;
      Swete paradise precelling in pleasure;
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne,
      Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,
      Under thy lusty wallys renneth down,
      Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair;
      Where many a barge doth saile and row with are;
      Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall.
      O, towne of townes! patrone and not compare,
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white
      Been merchauntis full royall to behold;
      Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyght
      In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold.
      By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old
      May be the hous of Mars victoryall,
      Whose artillary with tonge may not be told:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Strong be thy wallis that about thee standis;
      Wise be the people that within thee dwellis;
      Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis;
      Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis;
      Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis;
      Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small;
      Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce,
      With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently.
      No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce
      In dignitye or honour goeth to hym nigh.
      He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye;
      Principall patrone and rose orygynalle,
      Above all Maires as maister most worthy:
      London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

      —————

      The End

      And that’s the End of the Poem

      © Poetry Monster, 2021.

      Poems by topic and subject.

      Poetry Monster — the ultimate repository of world poetry.

      Poetry Monster — the multilingual library of poetic works. Here you’ll find original poems, poetry translations, ancient verses, ballads and even folk tales.

      Poetry Monster (or even The Poetry Monster) — is also an international multilingual community of poets and poetry connoisseurs. Join us:

      Register.

      Some external links: The Bat’s Poetry Cave. — Fledermaus’s poetry site. Talking Writing Monster. — the irreverent and irrelevant chatter on subjects both serious and not quite. A free for all board. You can scribble anything on it without registration (but it doesn’t let spammers in). You can even post your poems. Qwant.com. — a search engine from France. It’s an alternative because there are a few alternatives, like Bing, Duckduckgo, and Ecosia. And there is Yandex, the ultimate language-oriented search engine for the Russophone world. Commercial Links: Russian Commerce – the foreign trade assistance agency Other links: Poems and poetry in Russian (if you are reading this in English, as you obviously are, then you’d have to switch the language, the language switch is on the menu. More on languages)