Posts tagged ‘1776’

Monday, 31 March 2014

The Flowers of the Forest by Jean (Jane) Elliot (with rough translation by flusteredduck)

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a’  wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing nae fleeching
The Flowers of the Forest are a’  wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
‘Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a’  wede away.

The Flowers of the Forest by Jean (Jane) Elliot (rough translation by flusteredduck)

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses singing before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on every green common—
The Flowers of the Forest are all scythed away.

At folds, in the morning, no blythe lads are teasing,
The lasses are lone, and melancholy, and sad;
No teasing, no prattling, but sighing and sobbing,
Every one lifts her milk pail and goes on her way.

In harvest, at the shearing, no youths now are jeering,
The workers are hoary, and wrinkled, and grey;
At fair or at preaching, no wooing no flattering—
The Flowers of the Forest are all scythed away.

At evening, in the twilight, no youngsters are roaming
‘Bout stacks with the lasses at games to play;
But every one sits dreary, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers of the Forest are scythed away.

Grief and woe for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for once, by guile won the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought ever at the fore,
The prime of our land, are cold in the clay.

We’ll hear no more singing at our ewe-milking;
Women and children are heartless and sad;
Sighing and moaning on every green common—
The Flowers of the Forest are all scythed away.

From: http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/flowers-forest

Date: 1776

By: Jean (Jane) Elliot (1727-1805)

Sunday, 5 January 2014

Strew the Way with Flowers by Ludwig Christoph Heinrich Hölty

O strew the way with rosy flowers,
And dupe with smiles thy grief and gloom!
For tarnished leaves and songless hours
Await thee in the tomb.
Lo, in the brilliant festal hall
How lightly youth and beauty tread!
Yet, gaze again : the grass is tall
Above their charnel bed.

In blaze of noon the jewelled bride
Before the altar plights her faith :
Ere weep the skies of eventide
Her eyes are dulled in death.
Then sigh no more. If life be brief,
So are its woes ; and why repine?
Pavilioned bv the linden leaf.
We’ll quaff the chaliced wine.

Wild music from the nightingale
Comes floating on the loaded breeze.
To mingle in the bowery vale
With hum of summer bees;
Then taste the joys that God bestows,
The beaded wine, the faithful kiss!
For while the tide of pleasure flows.
Death bares his black abyss.

In vain the zephyr’s breath perfumes
The house of death ; in vain its tones
Shall mourn at midnight round the tombs
Where sleep our blackening bones.
The star-bright bowl is broken there.
The witchery of the lute is o’er.
And, wreck of wrecks! there lie the fair
Whose beauty wins no more.

From: Mangan, James Clarence, His Selected Poems with a study by the editor Louise Imogen Guiney, 1897: Lamson, Wolffe and Company: Boston and New York, pp. 213-14.
(https://archive.org/stream/jamesclarenceman1897mang#page/212/mode/2up)

Date: 1776 (German); 1834 (translated)

By: Ludwig Christoph Heinrich Hölty (1748-1776)

Translated by: James Clarence Mangan (1803-1849)

Sunday, 21 October 2012

Rock of Ages by Augustus Montague Toplady

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy wounded side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure;
Save from wrath and make me pure.

Not the labour of my hands
Can fulfil Thy law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to the cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Saviour, or I die.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When mine eyes shall close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.

From: http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/r/o/rockages.htm

Date: 1776

By: Augustus Montague Toplady (1740-1778)