Lament for the Makaris
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 gods all Estatis, Princis, Prelattis, 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 astrologic, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee: Timor Mortis conturbat me. In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis and physicianis, Themself from Death may nocht supplee: Timor Mortis conturbat me. I see that makaris amang the lave Playis is here their padyanis, syne gods 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 aventeris 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 nocht flee: Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has reft Mersar 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 Cortorphine; 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 enbrasit has he: Timor Mortis conturbat me. And he has now sane, 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 Dedth lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be: Timor Mortis conturbat me Sen he has all my brothers sane, He will nocht let me live alane; Of force I mon 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.
