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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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Robert Burns: Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars: On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her by Burns.

Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her by Burns.

Type: Inscription

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet’s prayer,
That Fate may, in her fairest page,
With ev’ry kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enroll thy name:
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution, still aware
Of ill-but chief, Man’s felon snare;

All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

Dumfries, June 26, 1769.

————-

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Robert Burns: O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast:

O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast

 

Type: Poem

O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or were I Monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown
Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.

————-

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Robert Burns: A Health To Ane I Loe Dear:

A Health To Ane I Loe Dear

 

Type: Poem

Chorus-Here’s a health to ane I loe dear,
Here’s a health to ane I loe dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear-Jessy.

Altho’ thou maun never be mine,
Altho’ even hope is denied;
‘Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than ought in the world beside-Jessy.
Here’s a health, &c.

I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thine arms-Jessy.
Here’s a health, &c.

I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e’e;
But why urge the tender confession,
‘Gainst Fortune’s fell, cruel decree?-Jessy.
Here’s a health, &c.

————-

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Robert Burns: O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass:

O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass

 

Type: Poem

Chorus-O lay thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine, lass;
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.

A slave to Love’s unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me meikle wae;
But now he is my deadly fae,
Unless thou be my ain.
O lay thy loof, &c.

There’s mony a lass has broke my rest,
That for a blink I hae lo’ed best;
But thou art Queen within my breast,
For ever to remain.
O lay thy loof, &c.

————-

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Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: On Her Recovery

Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars On Her Recovery

Type: Poem

But rarely seen since Nature’s birth,
The natives of the sky;
Yet still one seraph’s left on earth,
For Jessie did not die.

————-

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Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: Jessie’s illness

Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars Jessie’s illness

Type: Poem

Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth
Can turn Death’s dart aside!
It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessie had not died.

————-

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Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Menagerie

Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars The Menagerie

Type: Poem

Talk not to me of savages,
From Afric’s burning sun;
No savage e’er could rend my heart,
As Jessie, thou hast done:
But Jessie’s lovely hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,
Not even to view the heavenly choir,
Would be so blest a sight.

————-

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Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Toast

Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars The Toast

Type: Poem

Fill me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast, a toast divine:
Giveth me Poet’s darling flame,
Lovely Jessie be her name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

————-

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