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Winter – A Dirge
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter-day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
This one request of mine.—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Robert Burns
(1759 – 1796)
Winter – A Dirge
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Address to Edinburgh
1.
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honor’d shade.
2.
Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies ;
There Architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise :
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod ;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.
3.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail,
Or modest Merit’s silent claim :
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!
4.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine :
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!
5.
There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ;
Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar :
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.
6.
With awe-stuck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes! had their royal home :
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their haplesss race wild-wand’ring roam!
Tho’ rigid Law cries out: ‘’Twas just!’
7.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:
Ev’n I, who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!
8.
Edine! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs ;
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Address to Edinburgh
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Is there for Honest Poverty
1.
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that ?
The coward slave, we pass him by—
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
2.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a’ that ?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine—
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that,
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
3.
Ye see yon birkie ca’d ‘a lord,’
Wha struts, an’ states, an’ a’ that ?
Tho’ hundreds worship at this word,
He’s but a cuif for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that
4.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.
5.
Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a’ that)
That Sense and Worth o’er ‘ a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.
Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Is there for Honest Poverty
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Robert Burns
Address to Edinburgh
1.
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honor’d shade.
2.
Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies ;
There Architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise :
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod ;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.
3.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail,
Or modest Merit’s silent claim :
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!
4.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine :
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!
5.
There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ;
Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar :
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.
6.
With awe-stuck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes! had their royal home :
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their haplesss race wild-wand’ring roam!
Tho’ rigid Law cries out: ‘’Twas just!’
7.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:
Ev’n I, who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!
8.
Edine! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs ;
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Address to Edinburgh
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Robert Burns
(1759–1796)
A Fond Kiss
A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Nothing could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never lov’d say kindly,
Had we never lov’d say blindly,
Never met–or never parted–
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee well, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest!
Thine be like a joy and treasure,
Peace. enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
Robert Burns poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Robert Burns
(1759-1796)
A Red, Red Rose
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
‘Till a’ the seas gang dry.
‘Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a-while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns
Een rode, rode roos
Mijn lief is ’n rode, rode roos
Net uit de knop zo schoon:
Mijn lief is ’n zoete melodie
Gespeeld op zuivere toon.
Zo mooi als jij bent, deerne fraai,
Zoveel houd ik van jou:
En ik bemin je nog, mijn lief,
Tot zee verdrogen zou.
Tot zee verdrogen zou, mijn lief,
En zon de rotsen sloopt:
En ik bemin je nog, mijn lief,
Als ’t levenszand verloopt.
Vaarwel voor nu, enige schat,
Vaarwel voor korte duur!
En ik kom eens weerom, mijn schat,
Al reisde ik duizend uur.
Vertaling: Cornelis W. Schoneveld
Uit: Bestorm mijn hart, de beste Engelse gedichten uit de 16e-19e eeuw gekozen en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld, tweetalige editie. Rainbow Essentials no. 55, Uitgeverij Maarten Muntinga, Amsterdam, 2008, 296 pp, € 9,95 ISBN: 9789041740588
Bestorm mijn hart bevat een dwarsdoorsnede van vier eeuwen lyrische Engelse dichtkunst. Dichters uit de zestiende tot en met de negentiende eeuw dichter onder andere over liefde, natuur, dood en religie. Niet alleen de Nederlandse vertaling is in deze bundel te vinden, maar ook de originele Engelse versie. Deze prachtige bloemlezing, met gedichten van onder anderen Shakespeare, Milton, Pope en Wordsworth, is samengesteld en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld. Hij is vele jaren docent historische Engelse letterkunde en vertaalwetenschapper aan de Universiteit van Leiden geweest.
Meer vertalingen van Cornelis W. Schoneveld binnenkort op deze site in de rubriek:
Cornelis W. Schoneveld, poetry in translation
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Burns, Burns, Robert
R o b e r t B u r n s
(1759-1796)
S e v e n P o e m s
On Sensibility
Sensibility how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou host also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o’er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
Finer feeling can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
On a Friend
An honest man here lies at rest
As e’er God with his image blest!
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth;
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
The Book-worm
Through and through the inspir’d leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But oh! respect his lordship’s taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
A Red, Red Rose
I
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
II
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
‘Till a’ the seas gang dry.
III
‘Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
IV
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a-while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
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Anna, Thy Charm
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv’n;
For sure ’twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of Heav’n.
Gloomy December
I
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care:
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair.
Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!
Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.
II
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
‘Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone!
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair.
Here is The Glen
I
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour–
O what can stay my lovely maid?
II
‘Tis not Maria’s whispering call;
‘Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mix’d with some warbler’s dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
III
It is Maria’s voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer,
At once ’tis music–and ’tis love.
IV
And art thou come? and art thou true?
O welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flow’ry banks of Cree.
kemp=mag poetry magazine
More in: Burns, Robert
THE LAZY MIST
I
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!
II
How long have I liv’d, but how much liv’d in vain!
How little of life’s scanty span may remain!
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn!
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn!
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain’d!
And downward, how weaken’d, how darken’d, how pain’d!
Life is not worth having with all it can give—
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
Robert Burns (1759-1796)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
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