The poems and fables of Robert Henryson ... Edited from the earliest manuscripts and printed texts by H. Harvey Wood |
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The Ressoning betuix Deth and Man
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 | The poems and fables of Robert Henryson |  |
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The Ressoning betuix Deth and Man
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‘O mortall man, behold, tak tent to me,
Quhilk sowld thy mirrour be baith day & nicht;
all erdly thing that evir tuik lyfe mon die:
Paip, empriour, king, barroun, & knycht,
Thocht thay be in thair roall stait and hicht,
may not ganestand, quhen I pleiss schute the derte;
waltownis, Castellis, and towris nevir so wicht,
may nocht risist quhill it be at his herte.’
The Man.
‘Now quhat art thow That biddis me thus tak tent,
And mak ane mirrour day & nicht of the?
Or with thy Dert I sowld richt soir repent?
I trest trewly off that thow sall sone lie.
Quhat freik on fold sa bald dar maniss me,
Or with me fecht, owthir on fute or horss?
Is non so wicht, or stark in this cuntre,
Bot I sall gar him bow to me on forss.’
Deth.
‘My name, forswth, sen that thou speiris,
Thay call me deid, Suthly I the declair,
Calland all man and woman to thair beiris,
Quhen evir I pleiss, quhat tyme, quhat place, or quhair:
Is nane sa stowt, Sa fresche, Nor yit sa fair,
Sa yung, Sa ald, Sa riche, nor yit sa peur,
Quhair evir I pass, Owthir lait or air,
mon put thame haill on forss undir my cure.’
212
‘Sen it is so, That nature can so wirk,
That yung and awld, with riche & peure, mon die,
In my yowtheid, allace, I wes full Irk,
Cowld not tak tent To gyd and governe me,
Ay gude to do, ffra evill deidis to fle,
Trestand ay yowtheid wold with me abyde,
fulfilland evir my sensualitie
In deidly syn, and specialy in pryd.’
Deth.
‘Thairfoir repent and remord thy conscience;
Think on thir wordis I now upoun the cry:
O wrechit man, O full of Ignorance,
All thy plesance thow sall richt deir aby;
Dispone thy self and cum with me in hy,
Edderis, askis, and wormis meit for to be;
Cum quhen I call, thow ma me not denny,
Thocht thow war paip, Empriour, and king all thre.’
Man.
‘Sen it is swa ffra the I may not chaip,
This wrechit warld for me heir I defy,
And to the deid, To lurk under thy Caip,
I offer me with hairt richt humly;
Beseiking god, The divill, myne Ennemy,
No power haif my sawill till assay.
Jesus, on the, with peteous voce, I cry,
Mercy on me to haif on domisday.’
ffinis: quod hendersone.
| The poems and fables of Robert Henryson | |