Quid

YOUR HONOUR,

I know no resolutions more worthy a Christian king, than to prefer his conscience before his kingdoms.

[Eikon Basilike, 1649]

The following work is an attempt at ‘traversal poetry’, for transference between the worlds of two or more politici in each world, would thereby not exclude a negotiation in our words of how to ought and how to owe. Respecting a recent review of Ms. Balmer’s essay in Translating Classical Verse, Creating Contemporary Poetry. Oxford University Press, with regards to Cicero’s De Optimo: interpres, adnumerare, and appendere, the dignity of the translator was mentioned, who negotiates scholastics and creativity, or one’s wringing out, or exprimere, is according to our human search for humanity in our arts - and, in passing, let us record humatus - that one who we ought to know, and who we owe itinerary in our passage, who traverses the bounding-line at the toll we pay to acquire, that we reciprocate, in each poem we leave.

Alexander Montgomerie was the descendant of a noble family, and was born at Hazel-head-castle, in the county of Ayr, in Scotland. Although he was never granted a knighthood, Montgomery was commonly referred  to as a captain; and, it may therefore be presumed that he was a professional soldier. For much of his life, he served as a court poet in the service of King James VI, who succeeded the last Tudor monarch of England and Ireland, Queen Elizabeth I, in 1603. King James I's son, Charles Stuart, King of England, succeeded the crown in 1625, whose rule was famous for the English Civil War that he lost to Oliver Cromwell. In 1649 Charles Stuart acceded "from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown” and England became a commonwealth. A martyr of the people, he was canonized as a saint by the Church of England in 1660, two years after the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the restoration of the monarchy that was bound in ceil, in 1649.

FROM BRAD RAMSEY (POSTMODERNIST AUTHOR)

Montgomerie

I

Twa miles abufe rural Kirkenburgh,

At Tanguelard quheir the Tarffe's furrow

Meets the River Dee; and great racks and crags,

Preuent the salmon as the water sags;

I haif heard some sae (haw true I knaw not)

That this was the plass, and thereof well soucht,

That the Captain in quicknand of fancie,

“The Cherie and the Slae”, intituled he.

II

My best-belouit Captain of the band,

I groan to outlyfe all of that empathie;

This is na lyve I lead far fram yer land,

And lyke not the barray of fysh I see;

Syn I am subject to sterlitie,

And dailie denied le bon mot que juste.

III

As Lyndesay proued, and I also wald fynd true,

That Courteours’ kyndness lasts yet for aquhyle,

For once gude turns be sped, quhy then adieu,

Or promised friendship passes in exyle.

As Hudsone, faith, ne'er did quite beguyle -

We’d hoped for him, as ony of the brafe,

If he had a hylt, he had plenty of style -

Yet made himself well-known ta be our knafe.

O Captain, that thy pleasure did conceif,

In all gude-wyll, then found all was forgot;

A pettie humour encouraged that man’s leif,

And shewed that friendship as it ripes is rot;

And tha you wer somtyme subject to be sick,

You needn’t hafe ben taen out o’ the mick.

IV

If lose of gudes, if gritest grudge or grief,

If pouertie, imprisonment, or pane,

If gude-wyll for ingratitude again,

If languishing in languor but relief,

If det, if dolour, and I say if chief

Of sorrows so, the labour lost in vain

Does properlie to poets appertain;

To share that skill, if ony I haif leif,

To be for unknown patrons in regard,

Quho like the bets of our age to relate

The spectre found in nature, and that is hard,

If cam and go, as few micht celebrate,

Tonicht, I am not like them in arte,

I match them perfectlie in that parte.

V.i

O Captain

Dare not Jove stryke you wid his thunder clap,

Tha he kild you not in the midwyfe’s hand;

Nor dare Mercure with his script'd wand,

Deprive you of yer senses, wyt, and shape;

For Hevin hindrand once, could prufe the hap.

ii

Dare not they'd rather'd stop't yer breath,

Tha ne’er yer muder's bowels yer last bed;

Nor her burden prufe twas delyverie of death,

Nor choked you well, so sune as tears were shed;

Dare not the Muses to yer cradle led,

Weren’t movit as Vestal Virgins you to wrap,

For Hevin hindrand once, could prufe the hap.

iii

Dare not thy muder unblythe quhen you were barne,

Tha thy Norths gave you welfare to aduance;

Say withal yer birth was Easter day at marne;

Dare not Apollo quho then appear’d to dance,

Gaif not to you gude morrow wid a glance,

Nor raised you in his golden chair and lap,

For Hevin hindrand once, could prufe the hap.

iv

He makin you for a Helicon to haif,

Then were you noviss to the Nobles nyne,

Also the Gods a god-barne gyft then gaif,

Ambrosian bread and hevinly nectar wyn,

For quintessence, a graif-bed just as fyne,

For Hevin hindrand once, could prufe the hap.

VI

Howsoever Beautie in ourselfes is blawn,

I thank my God, I shame not of my glass;

If we be gude, the better is our own,

And he that’s gude, the better shews his sass;

I wold not fynd men in your semblance pass

Wid visage unfair, nor do I fear you lak;

Therefore, I wold you gaze on, Daisy lass,

As that mirror of yer own, shall never crak.

VII

Tak tyme’s quick pace, or tyme shall owretak;

Therefore, tak care how yer tyme is spent.

She has no hauld, to hauld you, for yer sake,

A pet before, asunder both are rent,

Let thou her slip away, or so you went,

You haif no grip, yet haif yer lufe to make,

If thou delay, remember quhat I spake,

Take tyme’s quick pace, or tyme shall owretak.

For I haif heard in adages of auld,

That tyme does waste and weir all things a clay;

Then true the tale that true men oft haif tauld -

A turn in tyme is oft the anly way.

Syn, I haif heard oft-tymes the same men say,

I had a lufe, I could na langer make;

Else, swindles tyme’s luck followand delay,

Take tyme’s quick pace, or tyme shall owretak.

-Brad Ramsey (Postmodernist  Author)

Non MMXX. Sed MMXVII?