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Amyd all this deray and gret effeir,
Fame, of dyseyss forrydar and messynger,
Com hurland with huge movyng fast to tovn
And with large clamour fyllys inveroun
Thar myndis all, quhou ane ded corps new than
Was cumand at hand with mony wofull man,
And Turnus lyfless laid with mortal wond,
In feld discomfist, slane and brocht to grund.
Than euery wight, trublit and wobegon,
The blak blesand fyre brandis mony on,
As was the gyss, hess hynt into thar handis;
Of schynand flammys glitteris all the landis;
Thus thai recuntyrrit thame that cumand weir,
And sammyn ionyt cumpaneis in feir.
Quham alsfast as the matronys gan espy,
Thai smait thar handis and rasyt vp a cry,
That to the sternys went thar wofull beir.
Bot fra Dawnus the corps of hys son deir
Beheld, he gan stynt and arrest hys paiss,
And syne, half deill enragit, in a rayss,
With huge sorow smyte, in ruschis he
Amyd the rowt, that reuth was forto se,
And apon Turnus corps hym strekis doun,
Enbrasyng it ongrouf all in a swoun,
And, alsfast as he spek mycht, hess furth braid
With wordis lamentabill, and thus wyss he said:
“Son, the dyseyss of thy fader thus drest,
And of my febill eild the reuthfull rest
Now me byreft, quhy hess thou so, allace,
Into sa gret perrellys and in sik cace
Me catchit thus, and dryve quhidder?” quod he,
“And vndir cruell bargan, as I may se,
Now fynaly thus venquyst and ourcum,
Quhar is thy worthy valour now becum?
Quhar hess the douchty constans of thy spreit
Me careit thus from rest and all quyet?
Is this the notabill honour and lovyng
Of thy manhed, and glory of thy ryng?
Is this the gret wyrschip of thyne empyre?
O my deir son, quhilum thou bald syre,
Bryngis thou ws hame sikkyn triumphe as this?
Is this the rest and eyss thou dyd promyss
To thy fader, sa tryst and wobegone,
And oft ourset with ennemyss mony one?
Is this the meith and finale term or end
Of all laubouris, as we desyrit and wend?
O ways me, wrachit and wofull wyght!
Quhou hastely doun fallyn from the hight
Thir slyddir wardly chancis dryvis fast!
With quhou gret fard ourrollyt and down cast
So hastely beyn thir fatis, behald!
He that was laitly sa stowt, heich and bald,
Renownyt with gret honour of chevelry
And haldyn gret throu owt all Italy,
Quham the Troianys sa awfull felt in armys
And dred sa oft hys furour, wrocht thame harmys,
Myne awyn Turnus, lo now apon sik wyss
Ane lamentabill and wofull corps thou lyis:
Now dum and spechless that hed liggis thar,
Quhilum in all Italy nane sa fair,
Nor nane mair gracius into eloquens,
Nor nane so byg but harnes, nor at defens!
Son, quhar is now thy schynand lustyhed,
Thy fresch figour, thy vissage quhite and red,
Thy plesand bewte, and thyne eyn twan
With thar sweit blenkand lukis mony ane,
Thy gracyus glitterand semly nek lang,
Thy vocis sovn, quhilk as a trumpet rang?
The glor of Mars in batale or in stowr
Is conquest with sik aventouris sowr:
Had thou sic wyll thy selvyn to submyt
To fervent bargan and to dedis byt,
Quhen thou departit of this sted fra me,
Forto return with sik pompe as we se?
O haitfull deth! that only, quhar thou lykis,
With thy revengeabill wapynnys sa sair strikis,
That thou thir prowd myndis brydill may;
To all pepill elyke and common ay
Thou haldis evyn and baris thi ceptre wand,
Eternaly obseruand thy cunnand,
Quhilk gret and small doun thryngis, and nane rakkis,
And stalwart folkis to febill equale makkis,
The common pepill with the capitanys,
And ȝouth and age assemblys baith attanys.
Allace, detestabill deth, dyrk and obscur!
Quhat chance onworthy or mysaventur
Hess the constrenyt my child me to byreif,
And with a cruell wond thus ded to leif?
O systir Amata, happy queyn,” quod he,
“Be glaid of sa thankfull chance hapnyt the,
And of thyne awyn slauchtir be blith in hart,
Quharby thou hass sa gret dolour astart,
And fled sa huge occasions of myscheif,
Sa hard and chargeand huge wo and greif!
O goddis abuf, quhat ettill ȝe mor to do
Onto me wrachit fader? sen ellys, lo,
My son ȝhe haue byreft, and Ardea
My cite, into flambis brynt, alssua
Consumyt is and turnyt in assys red,
With weyngis fleys a fowle in euery sted.
Bot ha, Turnus, mar trist and wo am I
For thy maste petuus slauchter sa bludy:
Wantit this last myschance ȝit or sik thing
To thyne onweldy fader, auld Dawnus kyng.
Bot sikkyrly, with sic conditioun ay
Thir warldly thyngis turnys and writhis away,
That quham the furyus Forton lyst infest
And eftir lang quyet bryng to onrest,
Brayand apon that catyve for the nanys,
With all hir forss assalȝeis scho attanys,
And, with all kynd of torment, in hir greif
Constrenys hym with stundys of myscheif.”
Thus said he, wepand sadly, as man schent,
With large flude of teris hys face bysprent,
Drawand the sobbys hard and sychis smart,
Throw rageand dolour, deip owt from hys hart;
Lyke so as quhar Iovis byg fowle, the ern,
With hir strang tallonys and hir punsys stern
Lychtyng, had claucht the litill hynd calf ȝyng,
Torryng the skyn, and maid the blude owt spryng;
The moder, this behaldand, is all ourset
With sorow for slauchter of hir tendir get.