muninnhuginn | Poems (late)

Well National Poetry Day passed us by, due to aching hips that meant sitting at the computer pained somewhat and a headache (non-migrainous) that rendered much else difficult. So, in honour of the headache, we searched out one of our favourite of Dunbar's poems. Passing the mirror we caught sight of our clean and freshly brushed hair: so we looked out Herbert's The Forerunners. It may be late but it's two for the price of one:

My Heid did Yak Yester Nicht, William Dunbar

1
My heid did yak yester nicht,
This day to mak that I na micht,
So sair the magryme dois me menyie,
Perseing my brow as ony ganyie,
That scant I luik may on the licht.

2
And now, schir, laitlie, eftir mes,
To dyt thocht I begowthe to dres,
The sentence lay full evill ill find,
Unsleipit, in my heid behing,
Dullit in dulnes and distres.

3
Full oft at morrow I upryse,
Quhen that my curage sleipeing lyis,
For mirth, for menstrallie and play,
For din nor danceing nor deray,
It will not walkin me no wise.

The Forerunners, George Herbert

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;
White is their colour, and behold my head.
But must they have my brain? must they dispark
Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred?
Must dulnesse turn me to a clod?
Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God.

Good men ye be, to leave me my best room,
Ev’n all my heart, and what is lodged there:
I passe not, I, what of the rest become,
So Thou art still my God, be out of fear.
He will be pleased with that dittie;
And if I please him, I write fine and wittie.

Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors.
But will ye leave me thus? when ye before
Of stews and brothels onely knew the doores,
Then did I wash you with my tears, and more,
Brought you to Church well drest and clad:
My God must have my best, ev’n all I had.

Louely enchanting language, sugar-cane,
Hony of roses, whither wilt thou flie?
Hath some fond lover tic’d thee to thy bane?
And wilt thou leave the Church, and love a stie?
Fie, thou wilt soil thy broider’s coat,
And hurt thyself, and him that sings the note.

Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung,
And canvas, not with arras, clothe their shame:
Let follie speak in her own native tongue.
True beautie dwells on high: ours is a flame
But borrow’d thence to light us thither.
Beautie and beauteous words should go together.

Yet if you go, I passe not; take your way:
For, Thou art still my God, is all that ye
Perhaps with more embellishment can say,
Go birds of spring: let winter have his fee,
Let a bleak palenesse chalk the doore,
So all within be livelier then before.