John C. Wright's Journal

Poetry Corner

Lament for the Makers

William Dunbar 1465–1520?

I THAT in heill was and gladnèss

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.

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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.

GLOSSARY: heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand] dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie] mellay. sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] fight. piscence] puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] save. makaris] poets. the lave] the leave, the rest. padyanis] pageants. anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] inditing. fallowis] fellows. wichtis] wights, persons. man] must. dispone] make disposition.

I first came across this poem in THE WORM OUROBOROS by E.R. Eddison, in the scene where, having wrastled the mighty Gouldry Blasco for the lordship of the planet Mercury, the King of Witchland, Gorice XI is fallen and lies in state in the presense chamber of the Red Foliot, who reads Dunbar's Lament. He is interrupt at about line 45 when Corinius and the sons of Corsus are dicing during the funeral, and Corinius accuses Gallandus son of Corsus of cheating, and smites him on the jaw with the dice box.

This poem also shows up in my wife's novel CHILDREN OF PROSPERO, in the mouth of the morbid and sinister son of the magican, Erasmus Prospero, whose black wand contains nothing but the magic of withering and decaying. He recites it when he slays armies, turning them instantly to dust.

Who says science fiction does not introduce readers to high culture?

I always did feel sort of sorry for the babe full of benignity; and Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee. Alas, Poor Mungo!

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