Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ANE SATYRE OF THE THREI ESTAITIS, SELECTION, by DAVID LYNDSAY


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ANE SATYRE OF THE THREI ESTAITIS, SELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: For our christ's saik, I am richt weill content
Last Line: Bot I got never my gude gray meir againe.
Alternate Author Name(s): Lindsay, David; Lyndsay, Sir David Of The Moiunt


Veritie.

For our Christ's saik, I am richt weill content
To suffer all thing that sall pleis his grace,
Howbeit, ye put ane thousand till torment,
Ten hundreth thowsand sall ryse into thair place.

Veritie sits down on hir knies and sayis:

Yet up, thow slepis all too lang, O Lord,
And mak sum ressonabill reformatioun,
On thame that dois tramp down thy gracious word,
And hes ane deidlie indignatioun,

At them, quha maks maist trew narratioun:
Suffer me not, Lord, mair to be molest,
Gude Lord, I mak the supplicatioun,
With thy unfriends let me nocht be supprest.

* * *

Pardoner.

My patent pardouns, ye may se,
Cum fra the Cane of Tartarei,
Weill seald with oster schellis;
Thocht ye have na contritioun,
Ye sall have full remissioun,
With help of buiks and bellis.
Heir is ane relict, lang and braid,
Of Fine Macoult the richt chaft blaid,
With teith and al togidder:
Of Colling's cow, heir is ane home,
For eating of Mackonnal's corne
Was slain into Baquhidder.
Heir is ane coird, baith great and lang,
Quhilk hangit Johne the Armistrang:
Of gude hemp soft and sound:
Gude, halie peopill, I stand for'd,
Quha ever beis hangit with this cord
Neids never to be dround.
The culum of Sanct Bryd's kow,
The gruntill of Sanct Antonis sow,
Quhilk buir his haly bell;
Quha ever he be heiris this bell clinck,
Gif me ane dacat for till drink,
He sall never gang to hell.

* * *

Pauper.

Marie! I lent my gossop my mear to fetch hame coills,
And he hir drounit into the Querrell hollis;
And I ran to the Consistorie, for to pleinze,
And thair I happinit amang ane greidie meinze.
Thay gave me first ane thing thay call Citandum,
Within aucht dayis, I gat bot Lybellandum,
Within ane moneth, I gat ad Opponendum
In half ane yeir I gat Interloquendum,
And syne, I gat, how call ye it? ad Replicandum.
Bot, I could never ane word yit understand him;
And than, thay gart me cast out many plackis,
And gart me pay for four-and-twentie actis:
Bot, or thay came half gait to Concludendum
The Feind ane plack was left for to defend him.
Thus, thay post-ponit me twa yeir, with thair traine,
Syne, Hodie ad octo, bad me cum againe,
And than, thir ruiks, thay roupit wonder fast,
For sentence silver, thay cryit at the last.
Of Pronunciandum they maid me wonder faine;
Bot I got never my gude gray meir againe.






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