The Æneid of Virgil Translated Into Scottish Verse. Gawin Douglas

      With eris prest stude thar als stil as stone.

      A sownd or swowch I hard thar at the last,

      Lyke quhen the fyre, be fellon wyndis blast,

      Is drevyn amyd the flat of cornys rank;

      Or quhen the burn on spait hurlys down the bank,

      Owder throu a watir brek, or spait of flude,

      Ryvand vp rede erd, as it war wod,

      Down dyngand cornys, all the pleuch laubour atanys,

      And dryvis on swyftly stokkis, treis and stanys:

      The sylly hyrd, seand this grysly syght,

      Set on a pynnakill of sum cragis hycht,

      Al abasit, nocht knawand quhat this may meyn,

      Wondris of the sovnd and ferly at he has seyn.

      Rychtso I than, by cleyr takynnys enew,

      Manifestly al the Grekis falshed knew;

      Thair hyd dissait wolx patent than to ws.

      The nobil lugyng of worthy Deyphobus

      Was fal to grond, the fyre vpspred onone;

      The nixt hows byrnys of Vcalegon:

      The large seys and costis Sygean,

      Throu lycht of flambis and brycht fyris, schane.

      Vpsprang the cry of men and trumpys blist:

      As out of mynd, myne armour on I thryst,

      Thocht be na rayson: persave I mycht, but fail,

      Quhat than the fors of armys couth avail;

      Ȝit, hand for hand, to thryng out throw the pres

      With my feris, and rynnyng or we ces

      To the castel, our hartis brynt for desyre;

      The fury cachit our myndis hait as fyre,

      So that we thocht maist semly in a feld

      To de feghtand, enarmyt vnder scheld.

      Bot lo! Panthus, slippit the Grekis speris,

      Panthus Othriades son, that, mony ȝheris,

      Was of the strenth, and Phebus tempill preste,

      Into his armys, lappit to his breist,

      The haly rellykkis of the sanctuary,

      And eik our venquist goddis, by and by

      With hym beryng, and, in his hand alsso,

      Harlyng hym efter his litil nevo,

      Cummys lyke a wodman til our ȝet rynnyng.

      How now, Panthus, quhat tythingis do ȝe bryng?

      In quhat estait is sanctuary and haly geir?

      To quhilk other fortres sall we speir?

      Skars said I this, quhen, gowlyng petuusly,

      With thir wordis he answerd me in hy:

      The lattir day is cummyn of Dardanus end,

      The fatale tyme quham na walyng may mend;

      We war Troianys; vmquhile was Ilion;

      The schynand glory of Phrygianys now is gone:

      Fers Jupiter to Grece all has translait;

      Our al the cite, kyndillit in flambis hait,

      The Grekis now ar lordis but ony fors.

      Within the wallis, ȝone mekil standand hors

      Ȝettis furth armyt men; and now Synon

      Is victour haill, kyndilland eueron

      The new fyris glaidly, as it war sport.

      At athir ȝet beyn ruschit in sik a sort,

      Sa mony thousandis come neuer from Myce nor Arge;

      Sum cumpanyis, with speris, lance and targe,

      Walkis wachand in rewis and narow stretis;

      Arrayit batalis, with drawyn swerdis at gletis,

      Standis reddy forto styk, gor and sla:

      Skarsly the wachis of the portis twa

      Begouth defens and melle as thai mycht,

      Quhen blyndlyngis in the batail fey tha fyght.

      Throu thir wordis of Panthus, and goddis heste,

      Amyd the flambis and armour in I preste;

      Ruschand thidder quhar sorofull Erynnys,

      The noys and brute me drew, and quhar, I wys,

      The clamour hard I rys vp to the ayr.

      And of our fallowis to me come twa pair:

      Repheus fyrst, be the lycht of the moyn,

      Valiant in armys Ephitus followit soyn;

      Hypanys syne, and eik Dymas in hy,

      Fast to our syde adionyt by and by;

      Mygdoneus son alsso, Chorebus ȝyng,

      Quhilk in tha days, for fey luf hait byrnyng

      Of Cassandra, to Troy was cummyn that ȝeir,

      To help Priam and Troianys in the weir;

      Onhappy he was, wald not beleif fermly

      Hys sayd spowsis command and prophecy!

      Quhen I thame saw this wys adionyt to me,

      And wilful forto stryke in the melle,

      Thus I begouth thame forthirmar to steir:

      O ȝe maist forsy ȝong men that beyn heir,

      Wyth brestis strang, and sa bald curage hie,

      Invayn ȝe pres to succur this cite

      Quhilk byrnys al in fyre and flambys rede;

      The goddis al ar fled out of this stede,

      Throu quhais mycht stude our empyre mony day:

      Now all thar templis and altaris waist leif thai.

      Bot gif ȝour desyre be sa fermly prest

      To follow me dar tak the vtyrmest,

      Quhat fortune is betyd, al thingis ȝe se;

      Thar is na mair; lat ws togidder de,

      And in amyd our ennemyis army schute.

      To venquist folkis is a comfort and bute

      Nane hope of help to beleif, or reskew.

      Swa, with thir wordis, the ȝong menis curage grew,

      That in the dyrk lyke ravenus wolffis, on rawis,

      Quham the blynd fury of thar empty mawis

      Dryvis furth of thar den to seik thar pray,

      Thar litil quhelpis left with dry throtis quhil day;

      So, throw the wapynnys and our fays went we,

      Apon the ded ondowtit, and wald nocht fle.

      Amyd the cite we held the master streit,

      The dyrk nycht hyd ws with cloys schaddowis meit.

      CAP. VII

      The woful end, per ordour, heir, allace!

      Followys of Troy, and gestis of Eneas.