Sir David Lyndsay, Selected Poems

Sir David Lyndsay; Selected Poems, Ed. Janet Hadley Williams, The Association for Scottish Literary Studies, Glasgow, 2000

Quhen thow wes strong, I bure the in myne arme
Full tenderlie, tyll thow begouth to gang (walk)
And in thy bed oft happit (wrapped) the full warme,
With lute in hand syne (thereupon) sweitlie to the sang.

(The Dreme, 8-11)


Bot now thou arte, be influence naturall,
Hie of ingyne (intellect) and rycht inquisitive
Of antique storeis and dedis marciall.

(The Dreme, 29-31)


In to the calendis of Janurarie,
Quhen fresche Phebus, be movyng circulair,
Frome Capricorne wes enterit in Aquarie,
With blastis that the branchis maid full bair.
The snaw and sleit perturbit all the air
And flemit (banished) Flora frome every band and bus
Throuch supporte of the auseir (stern) Eolus.

(The Dreme, 57-63)


The small fowlis in flokkis saw I flee
To Nature, makand gret lamentatioun.
Thay lychtit doun besyde me on ane tree
(Of thare complaynt I hade compassioun),

(The Dreme, 84-87)


‘Allace, Aurora!’ the syllie (simple) larke can crye,
‘Quhare hest how left thy balmy lyquour sweit
That us rejosit, we mounting in the skye?
Thy sylver droppis ar turnit in to sleit.

(The Dreme, 92-95)


The see was furth (lowtide), the sand wes smoith and drye.
Than up and doun I musit myne alone
Tyll that I spyit ane lytill cave of stone,
Heych in ane craig. Upwart I did approche
But tarrying, and clam up in the roche,…
Bot satt styll in that cove, quhare I mycht se
The woltryng of the wallis, up and doun,…
So with my hude my hede I happit warme,
And in my cloke I fauldit boith my feit.
I thocht my corps with cauld suld tak no harme:
My mittanis held my handis weill in heit,
The skowland craig me coverit frome the sleit.
Thare styll I satt, my bonis for to rest,
Tyll Morpheus with sleip my spreit opprest.

(The Dreme, 115-140)


And als, langsum (tedious) to me for tyll (to) indyte
Of this presoun the panis (pain) in speciall
(The heit, the calde, the dolour, and dispyte [contempt]),
Quharefor I speik of thame in generall.

(The Dreme, 316-319)


‘Quhat place is this’, quod I, ‘of blys so bair?’
Scho answerit and said, ‘Purgatorye,
Quhilk purgis saulis or thay cum to glorye.’

(The Dreme, 341-343)


First to the Mone, and vesyit (observed) all hir speir,
Quene of the see and bewtie of the nycht

(The Dreme, 386-387)


…And than, but tarrying,
We past unto the heist of the sevin,
Tyll Saturnus, quhilk trublis all the hevin.
With hevy cheir and cullour paill as leid,
In hym we sawe bot dolour to the deid;
/
And cauld and dry he is, of his nature.
Foule lyke ane oule (owl), of evyll conditioun,
Rycht unplesand he is of portrature.
His intoxicat (poisoned) dispositioun,
It puttis all thing to perditioun.
Ground of seiknes and malancolious,
Perverst and pure, baith fals and invyous,
/
His qualite I can nocht love, bot lack.
As for his movying naturallie, but weir,
About the singis of the zodiack,
He dois compleit his cours in thretty yeir.
And so we left hym in his frosty speir.

(The Dreme, 472-488)


The portratour of that palice preclare (splendid)
By geomatre, it is inmesurabyl;
By rethorike, als inpronunciabyll.

(The Dreme, 591-593)


At Remebrance humilye I did inquyre
Geve I mycht in that plesour styll remane.
Scho said, ‘Aganis reasoun is thy desyre;
Quharefor, my freind, thow mon returne agane,
And for thy synnis, be penance, suffer paine,
And thole the dede with creuell panis sore,
Or thow be ding (worthy) to ryng (reign) with hym in glore.’

(The Dreme, 603-609)


‘Quhat is the cause our boundis (lands) bene so bair?’
Quod I, ‘Or quhate dois mufe (cause) our misere?
Or quhareof dois proceid our poverite?

(The Dreme, 809-811)


Of every mettell we have the ryche mynis,
Baith gold, sylver, and stonis precious;
Howbeit we want the spyces and the wynis,
Or uther strange fructis delicious,
We have als gude, and more neidfull for us:
Meit, drynk, fyre, claithis, thar mycht be gart abound,
Quhilkis ellis is nocht in al the mapamound (globe)

(The Dreme, 827-833)


I fynd thame rute (root) and grund of all our greif

(The Dreme, 880)


For quhen the sleuthful hird (shepherd) dois sloug and sleip,
Taking no cure in kepyng of his floke,
Quho wyll go sers (search) amang sic heirdis scheip
May habyll (possibly) fynd mony pure, scabbit (scabbed)
crok (old ewe),
And goyng wyll at large, withouttin lok.
Than lupis cumis, and Lowrance, in ane lyng (line),
And dois, but reuth, the sely (silly) scheip dounthryng (down-thrust).

(The Dreme, 889-896)


And thus, as we wer talking to and fro,
We saw a boustius berne cum ovir the bent,
But hors, on fute, als fast as he mycht go,
Quhose raiment wes all raggit, revin, and rent,

(The Dreme, 918-921)


Thare officiaris thay held me at disdane,
For Symonie, he rewlit all that rout,
And Covatyce, that carle, gart bar me oute.
/
Pryde hatih chaist frome thame humilitie,
Devotioun is fled unto the freris;
Sensuale Pleasour hes baneist Chaistitie,
Lordis of religioun thay go lyke seculeris

(The Dreme, 978-984)


Our gentyll men ar all degenerat

(The Dreme, 988)

Boy wyt ye weill, my hart was wounder sarye,
Quhen Comoun Weill so sopit (sopped) was in sorrow.

(The Dreme, 997-998)


And lychtlie dynit, with lyste (pleasure) and appityte

(The Dreme, 1030)


Hait vicious men, and lufe thame that ar gude

(The Dreme, 1070)


And fynalie, remember thow mon dee,
And suddanlie pas of this mortall see,
And art nocht sicker (certain) of thy lyfe two houris

(The Dreme, 1118-1120)


Nocht lang ago, efter the hour of pryme (midnight),
Secreitly sittyng in myne oratorie,
I tuk ane buke, tyll occupye the tyme,
Quhare I fand mony tragedie and storie
Quhilk Johne Bochas (Boccaccio) had put in memorie…
I, sittyng so, upon my buke redyng,
Rycht suddantlie afore me did appeir
Ane woundit man, aboundantlie bledyng,
With visage paill and with ane dedlye cheir (expression),
Semand ane man of two and fyftie yeir;
In raiment reid, clothit full curiouslie
Of vellot (velvet) of saityng (satin) crammosie (crimson).
/
With febyll voce, as man opprest with paine,
Soiftlye he maid me supplycatioun,
Sayand, ‘My friend, go reid, and reid againe,
Geve thow can fynde, by trew narratioun,
Of ony paine lyke to my passioun.
Rycht sure I am, war Jhone Bochas on lyve,
My tragedie at lenth he wald discryve.
/
Sen he is gone, I pray the tyll indyte
Of my infortune sum remembrance

(The Tragedie of the Cardinall, 1-30)