Virgil's Aeneid translated into Scottish verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pluto, thou patron of the deip Achiron,
Fader of tormentis in thyne infernal see,
Amyd the fludis, Stix and Flagiton,
Lethie, Cochite, the watyris of oblivie,
With dolorus quhirling of furyus sistyris thre,
Thyne now salbe my muse and drery sang:
To follow Virgil in this dyrk poyse
Convoy me, Sibil, that I ga nocht wrang.

Quhat wenys fulys this saxt buke be bot iapis,
Al ful of leys or ald ydolatryis?
O hald ȝour pace, ȝe verray goddis apis!
Reid, reid agane, this volume, mair than twyss:
Considir quhat hyd sentence tharin lyis;
Be war to lak, less than ȝe knew weil quhat;
And gif ȝou list not wirk eftir the wiss,
Heich on ȝour hede set vp the foly hat.

“All is bot gaistis and elrich fantasyis,
Of browneis and of bogillis ful this buke:
Owt on thir wandrand speritis, wow!” thou cryis;
“It semys a man war mangit, tharon list luke,
Lyke dremys or dotage in the monys cruke,
Vayn superstitionys aganyst our richt beleve;
Quhat of thir fureis, or Pluto that plukkit duke,
Or cal on Sibil, deir of a revyn sleif?”

Wald thou I suld this buke to the declare,
Quhilk war impossibil til expreme at schort?
Virgil is ful of sentence our all quhare,
Bot heirintil, as Seruius gan proport,

Hys hie knawlage he schawis, that euery sort
Of his clausys comprehend sik sentence,
Thar bene tharof, set thou think this bot sport,
Maid gret ragmentis of hie intelligence.

In all his warkis Virgil doith discrive
The stait of man, gif thou list vnderstand,
Baith lif and ded in thir fyrst bukis fyve;
And now, intil this saxt, we haue on hand,
Eftir thar deth, in quhat plyte saulis sal stand.
He writis lyke a philosophour naturall;
Twichand our faith mony clausis he fand
Quhilk beyn conform, or than collaterall.

Schawis he nocht heir the synnys capital?
Schawis he nocht wikkit folk in endless pane,
And purgatory for synnys venyall,
And vertuus pepil into the plesand plane?
Ar al sik sawis fantasy and invane?
He schawis the way, evir patent, down to hell,
And rycht difficil the gait to hevin agane,
With ma gude wordis than thou or I kan tell.

Heir tretand vertu, taxis he pane for vyce,
Feil woful turmentis of wrachit catyvis sary,
Notabil histories, and diuerss proverbis wyce,
Quhilkis to reherss war our prolixt a tary;
Al thocht he, as a gentile, sum tyme vary,
Ful perfitely he writis seir misteris fell,
As quhou thir heithin childir thar werdis wary,
Wepand and waland at the first port of hell.

And, thocht our faith neid nane authorising
Of gentiles bukis, nor by sik heithin sparkis,
Ȝit Virgil writis mony iust clauss conding,
Strenthing our beleve, to confound payan warkis.
Quhou oft rehersis Austyne, cheif of clarkis,
In his gret volume of the Cite of God,
Hundreth versis of Virgil, quhilk he markis
Agane Romanys, til vertu thame to brod!

And of this saxt buke walis he mony a scor,
Not but gude resson, for, thocht Criste grund our faith,
Virgil sawis ar worth to put in stor.
Thay aucht not be hald vagabund nor waith—
Ful riche tresour thai bene and precius graith:
For oft by Sibilys sawis he tonys his stevyn;
Thus faithfully in his Bucolykis he saith,
The maide cummyth bringis new lynnage fra hevyn.

As twiching hym writis Ascencyus,
Feil of his wordis bene like the appostilis sawis;
He is ane hie theolog sentencyus,
And maste profound philosophour he him schawis,
Thocht sum his writis frawart our faith part drawis.
Na wondir! he was na Cristyn man, per De,
He was a gentile, and levit on payane lawis,
And ȝit he puttis a God Fader maste hie.

We trow a God, regnand in personys thre,
And ȝit angellis hevinly spiretis we call;
And of the hevinly wightis oft carpis he,
Thocht he belevit thai war not angellis all.
Quhil Cristis passioun, of Adam from the fall,
All went to hell, thocht all war nocht in pane:
Or Criste he wrait this buke, quhar reid ȝe sall
Distinit in hell specialy placis twane,

And principaly the sted of fell tormentis,
With seyr departingis in that laithly hald,
Ane other place quhilk purgator representis,
And, dar I say, the Lymbe of faderis ald,
With Lymbus puerorum, as I haue tald—
Schawis he not eik, by werkis meritory,
Quhou iust pepil, in welthis monyfald,
Raiosys, syngand sangis of hevynly glory?

And, as he twichis greys seyr in payn,
In blys, elike wyss, syndry stagis puttis he.
Quhat sal I of his wondir warkis sayn?
For al the plesance of the Camp Elyse,

Octauian, in his Georgikis, ȝe may se;
He consalis nevir lordschip in hell desyre,
Bot evir in hevin, intil sum his degre,
To cheyss his place, and not amang the fyre.

Quhat Cristyn clerk kouth hym haue consalit bettir?
Al thocht he was neuer Catholyk wight,
He hess writtin ful mony attentik lettir.
In that ilk buke he techis ws ful richt,
The warld begouth in veyr, baith day and nycht;
In veir he says that God als formyt man,
The son, the mone and all the starnys bright:
We grant in veir that first the warld began.

“Happy war he knew the causs of all thingis,
And settis on syde all dreid and cuyr,” quod he,
“Vndir his feyt at treddis, and down thryngis,
Chancis ontretabill of fatis and destane,
All feir of ded, and eik of hellis see.”
Happy he callys sik wightis, and sa do I.
Quhar may we swa optene felicite?
Neuer bot in hevin empire abone the sky.

Tyll write ȝou all hys tryit and notabil verss
Almaist impossibil war, and half invane,
For me behuffyt repeting and reherss
In seir placis the sammyn wordis agane.
This may suffice, I wil no mor sane:
Ane movar, ane begynnar puttis he,
Sustenys all thing, and doyth in all remane,
And, be our faith, the sammyn thing grant we.

I say nocht all hys warkis beyn perfyte,
Nor that sawlys turnys in othir bodeys agane,
Thocht we traste, and may preif be haly write,
Our sawle and body sal anys togiddir remane.
At thar bene mony goddis I wil not sane,
Thocht haly scriptur iust men “goddis” clepe.
Quhom cal I Pluto and Sibilla Cumane,
Hark; for I wil na fals goddis wirschepe.

Sibilla, til interpret propirly,
Is clepit a maid of goddis secret preve,
That hes the spiret divyne of prophecy.
Quha bettir may Sibilla namyt be
Than may the gloryus moder and madyn fre,
Quhilk of hir natur consavit Criste, and buyr
All haill the mysteris of the Trinite,
And maist excellent wark had vnder cure?

Thow art our Sibill, Crystis moder deir,
Prechit by prophetis and Sibilla Cumane;
Thou brocht the hevynly lynage in erd heir,
Moder of God, ay virgyne doith remane,
Restoring wss the goldin warld agane.
Sathan the clepe I, Pluto infernall,
Prynce in that dolorus den of wo and pane,
Nocht god tharof, bot gretast wrech of all.

To name the God, that war a manifest le;
Is bot a God, makar of euery thing—
I favour nocht the errour of Manache.
Set thou to Wlcane haue ful gret resembling,
And art sum tyme the minister of thundring,
Or sum blynd Ciclopes of thy laithly wra,
Thou art bot Iovys smytht, in the fyre blawing,
And dyrk fornace of perpetuall Ethna.

Thou wrocht na thyng, bot maid thi self a devill,
And that was not to mak, bot rather failȝe,
For Austyne says syn, myscheif or evill
Is nocht at all. For quhy? Thai nocht availȝe.
The dym dongeoun of Ditis till assailȝe,
Or in the lyknes this mysty poetry,
Help me, Mare; for certis, vail que vailȝe,
War at Pluto, I sal hym hunt of sty.

Heir endis the proloug and begynnys the saxt buke of Eneados