from The Retour o Troilus
Ill-thriven laund, eenou ti me sae deir, Cauldrife and courin fae the daithlie drow: Lang-cowpit waas, owre mony ghaists ablow; An yit I mynd the bluid-reid wine flowed here.
Why suid my youth feel auncient as thir stanes, Why suid my prieven virr sae faa fae me, Why suid my een, aye vieve efter the years O cruellest sains o fechtin, cryne fae this sicht? Here at the burn that mirrors me throu time I leuk upo mysel as yince I wis, Like faither ti a son, leevin ti daid, The past o Troy an Troilus. In this glen I cam late ti manheid: she, the forehand O aa the queans that ti my breist hae won, The rare Cresseid; she, whase flichterin hairt Felt delicat as ony timorsome mavie That liltit owre oor heids; she, whase quick muivement In guidin me ti a neuk, wis sib ti the con Wha derts athort the pad, then vainishes ... Here at the sacrit crag upon whase brou Oor forefowk biggit the dun an steidit Troy, We were twa glaikit bairns: the merest smitches That an ever-twynin linn Kests on the seg as, tentless, it hauds forrit. Aye bides the auld Troy fir Troilus. In this cave A queen made her orisons, and we oor luves; Whaur noo it’s daurk, then glintit my leman’s een, Whaur noo it’s foustie, then fufft her body’s scent, Whaur noo hing cobwabs, she cleikit me in her hair ...
Tom Hubbard
from Peacocks & Squirrels: poems from Fife (Akros, 2007)
Poem supplied courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library |