Lament for the Makers

I that in heill was and gladnéss

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 gois all Estatis,

Princis, Prelatis, 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 astrologgis,

Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,

Them helpis no conclusionis slee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In medecine the most practicianis,

Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,

Themself from Death may not supplee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

I see that makaris amang the lave

Playis here their padyanis, syne gois 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 anteris 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 nought flee:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has reft Merseir 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 Corstorphine;

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 enbrast has he:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

And he has now tane, 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 Death lies verily;

Great ruth it were that so suld be:—

Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Sen he has all my brether tane,

He will naught let me live alane;

Of force I man 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.