The poems and fables of Robert Henryson ... Edited from the earliest manuscripts and printed texts by H. Harvey Wood |
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[The Complaint of Orpheus]
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 | The poems and fables of Robert Henryson |  |
[The Complaint of Orpheus]
20
‘O dulful herp, with mony dully string,turne all thy mirth and musik in murning,
and seiss of all thy sutell songis sueit;
now weip with me, thy lord and cairfull King,
quhilk lossit hes in erd all his lyking;
and all thy game thow change in gole, and greit,
Thy goldin pynnis with mony teiris weit;
and all my pane for till report thow preiss,
cryand with me, in every steid and streit,
“quhair art thow gone, my luve ewridicess?”
134
21
Him to reioss yit playit he a spring,quhill that the fowlis of the wid can sing,
and treis dansit with thair levis grene,
him to devod from his grit womenting;
Bot all in vane, that wailyeit no thing,
his hairt wes so upoun his lusty quene;
The bludy teiris sprang out of his ene,
Thair wes no solace mycht his sobbing sess,
bot cryit ay, with cairis cauld and kene,
‘quhair art thow gone, my lufe euridicess?’
22
‘Fair weill my place, fair weill plesandis and play,and wylcum woddis wyld and wilsum way,
my wicket werd in wildirness to ware;
my rob ryell, and all my riche array,
changit salbe in rude russet and gray,
my dyademe in till a hate of hair;
my bed salbe with bever, brok, and bair,
in buskis bene with mony busteouss bess,
withowttin song, sayand with siching sair,
“quhair art thow gone, my luve euridicess?”
23
‘I the beseik, my fair fadir phebuss,Haif pety of thy awin sone orpheuss;
wait thow nocht weill I am thy sone and chyld?
now heir my plaint, peinfull and peteuss;
Direk me fro this deid so doloruss,
Quhilk gois thus withouttin gilt begyld;
Lat nocht thy face with cluddis to be oursyld;
Len me thy lycht, and lat me nocht go leiss,
To find that fair in fame that was nevir fyld,
My lady quene and lufe, euridices.
135
24
‘O Jupiter, thow god celestiall,and grantschir to my self, on the I call
To mend my murning and my drery mone;
Thow gif me forss, that [I] nocht fant nor fall,
Till I hir fynd; forsuth seik hir I sall,
and nowthir stint nor stand for stok nor stone.
Throw thy godheid grant me quhair scho is gone,
gar hir appeir, and put my hairt in pess.’
King orpheuss thus, with his harp allone,
Soir weipand for his wyfe euridices.
| The poems and fables of Robert Henryson | |