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Punis with pety and nocht with violens.
We knaw it is for our ingratitude
That we are punist with this pestillens.
Thow grant us grace for till amend our mis
And till evaid this crewall suddane deid.
We knaw our sin is all the caus of this.
For opin sin thair is set no remeid.
The justice of God mon punis than be deid
For by the law he will with nane dispens.
Quhair justice laikis, thair is eternall feid
Of God that suld preserf fra pestilens.
Bot wald the heidismen that suld keip the law
Punis the peple for thair transgressioun,
Thair wald na deid the peple than ourthraw,
Bot thay ar gevin sa plenly to oppressioun
That God will nocht heir thair intercessioun,
Bot all ar punist for inobediens
Be swerd or deid withouttin remissioun,
And hes just caus to send us pestilens.
Superne lucerne, guberne this pestilens
Preserve and serve that we nocht sterf thairin,
Declyne that pyne be thy devyne prudens,
For treuth, haif reuth, lat nocht our slewth us twyn.
Our syte full tyte, wer we contryt, wald blin.
Dissivir did nevir quha euir thee besocht
But grace with space for to arrace fra sin.
Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.
O prince preclair, this cair quotidiane,
We thee exort, distort it in exyle.
Bot thow remeid, this deid is bot ane trane
For to dissaif the laif and thame begyle,
Bot thow sa wyse, devyse to mend this byle,
Of this mischeif quha may releif us ocht
For wrangus win, bot thow our sin oursyle?
Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.
Sen for our vice that justice mon correct,
O king most he, now pacife thy feid.
Our sin is huge, refuge we nocht suspect.
And thow be juge, dislug us of this steid.
In tyme assent or we be schent with deid,
For we repent, all tyme mispent forthocht.
Thairfoir evirmor be gloir to thy godheid.
Lat nocht be tint that thow sa deir hes bocht.
The Praise of Age
Wythin a garth, under a rede rosere,
Ane ald man, and decrepit, herd I syng;
Gay was the note, suete was the voce et clere:
It was grete joy to here of sik a thing.
‘And to my dome,’ he said, in his dytyng,
‘For to be yong I wald not, for my wis
Off all this warld to mak me lord et king:
The more of age the nerar hevy
‘False is this warld, and full of variance,
Besoucht with syn and other sytis mo;
Treuth is all tynt, gyle has the gouvernance,
Wrechitnes has wroht all welthis wele to wo;
Fredome is tynt, and flemyt the lordis fro,
And covatise is all the cause of this;
I am content that youthede is ago:
The more of age the nerar hevy
‘The state of youth I repute for na gude,
For in that state sik perilis now I see;
Bot full smal grace, the regeing of his blude
Can none gaynstand quhill that he agit be;
Syne of the thing that tofore joyit he
Nothing remaynis for to be callit his;
For quhy it were bot veray vanitee:
The more of age the nerar hevy
‘Suld no man traist this wrechit warld, for quhy
Of erdly joy ay sorow is the end;
The state of it can noman certify,
This day a king, to morne na gude to spend.
Quhat have we here bot grace us to defend?
The quhilk god grant us for to mend oure mys,
That to his glore he may oure saulis send;
The more of age the nerar hevy
Роберт Хенрисон (ок. 1425 — ок. 1506)
Моление о чумé
Предвечный Боже, иже всемогущ!
Ничто от взора горняго не скрыто,
Век нынешний, и прошлый, и грядущ,
И тяготы, что мир вкусил досыта.
Помилуй нас, чьи вины не избыты,
Но кары смертныя достойны ль мы?
Спаси наш род, содействуй нарочито —
Избави нас от грозныя чумы!
Ты, Господи, превыше всех господ,
Склони к мольбе всеслышащее ухо:
В одном Тебе надежда и оплот,
И к одному Тебе стремленье духа.
Владычат нами горе и разруха,
Но Ты сердца спасаешь и умы!
К ничтожным снизойди, твердящим глухо:
Избави нас от грозныя чумы!