Margaret Winefride Simpson

LIKE IS THE MAIDEN PURE UNTO THE ROSE... (Lodovico Ariosto: 1474-1533)

LIKE is the maiden pure unto the rose,
In solitude a gairden fair within,
On its ain bush whilk siccar dis repose
Whaur naither flock nor shepherd near mey win;
For whilk the breeze blaws saft an dawin glows
Dew-sweet, earth yields her rowth an waters rins;
Wi whilk fond lasses loes to busk their hair;
Whilk in their breests braw callants, coortin, wiers.

LAUCHTER (Gabbriello Chiabrera: 1552-1637)

GIN a bonnie bit burn or a canny breeze pass
Throu the green-growin gress
Wi a lilt an a whisper when mornin's at birth;
Gin a lythe-lyin hauch a' wi flouers a-blaw
Growes blythe-like an braw,
At the soon' an the sicht we say lauchin's the yirth.
When an antrin bit win' frae the Wast comes the wey
An for frolic forby
In the shinin tide dips a fit, careless an free,
Sae that waves on the sands, a' ruffled an bricht,
Braks playfu an licht,
We say at the sicht that noo lauchin's the sea.
Gin ower flouers sae rosy or lilies sae pale
E'er a glimmerin veil
Dawin spreids wi the gowd o her glory adrift,
An her circle o sapphire roon' muivin dis show
New splendours aglow,
We say at the sicht that noo lauchin's the lift.
There's truith in't, I trow; in delyte or in mirth
Lauchs the hale earth;
Lauchs the hale lift while its gledness endures:
There's truith in't, I trow; but there's nane o them haes,
Lauch as they mey,
Lauchter as luvely or gracious as yours!

DESPAIR (Pietro Metastasio: 1698-1782)

UPON a cruel sea my wey I tak
Whaur aid I lack o cordage an o sail;
Mirk growes the lift, the waves maks unco mane,
Heich growes the win', an nocht dis ert avail;
Nor ither choice hae I save this alane-
To follae Fortune whaursae'er she will.
Ah, wae is me! This plicht whaurin I fa'
Leaves me forhooed bi ilka ane an a':
Alane wi me dis innocence remain
Whilk swift to shipwrack bears me onward still.

SPRINGTIDE (Jacopo Vittorelli: 1749-1835)

SEE, the month again is here
Evermair to Venus dear,
Waukenin while it cleids wi cheer
Hauch an howe an hill fou braw!
Like a shy an blushin lass,
Thats pure beauty dis surpass,
Keeks the violet throu the gress
While the tulips buds an blaws:
Sae wi berries reid an bricht
Is yon thorny bush bedicht;
Life an fragrance, fresh an licht,
Breathes frae whaur the greenwuds growes:
A' things bud or bloom displays
In this season fresh an gay;
But within your hert, fair mey,
Luve nor buds nor blooms, I trow!

THE RETURN (Luigi Carrer: 1801-1849)

A LAS5 I saw thee when fou free
There sprang to thy beloved face
The lauchter that reveals in grace
A hert sincere an pure;
O, frankly glintin in thy ee
Syne dwalt the frequent teir-draps bricht
As dew-draps dwalls that fills at nicht
The chalice o a flouer:
Yet changes, ah hoo mony, show
This day o thy return in thee!
Wi beauty's bloom thy face I see
Still blossomin as fair;
But noo ower far awa to flow
Frae yon twa bonnie een the tears;
The lauchter o thy tender years
In vain I seek ance mair:
Nae mair I finnd thee as thoo was
For stawn is ilka trace, in truith,
O yon frank leuk o thy first youth
Whilk ance was my delyte;
Fair are thoo, but thy lover's hert
Steersna at sicht o thee ava,
An dis, wi wistfu sich, reca'
The days that haes taen flicht!

ON THE DAITH O A CHILD (Andrea Maffei: 18-?)

O BAIRNIE, on this casket new,
Whilk dis enclose thy tender grace,
For gift this myrtle green I place,
Fair hyacinths for thee I strew!
But guileless sin on hie, sweet saul,
Thoo faurest, whaurfore mak I mane-
Sin bi the Lord, untried, thoo're taen
To ken delyte withoot devaul?
Ower happy is thy lot, in sooth!
A biddin sweet thoo dis obey;
Nor daith was this o thine, in truith:
Frae here thoo're sinnered in sic wice
As a lost angel that dis gae
The hameward gate to Paradise!