nearer heaven's bliss

This is the third of my recent purchases from a book-store!

It's a 1963 Robert Henryson collection, and here's one of the medieval Scots poems from within:


The Praise of Age

Wythin a garth under a rede rosere
Ane ald man and decrepit herd I syng.
Gay was the note, swete was the voce and 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,
Of all this warld to mak me lord and king.
The more of age, the nerar hevynnis blis.

False is this warld and full of variance
Besoucht with syn and othir 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 hevynnis blisse.

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 hevynnis blisse

Suld no man traist this wrechit warld, for quhy
Of erdly joy ay sorow is the end,
The state of it can no man certify,
This day a king, tomorne 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 hevynnis blisse.

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Robert Henryson (c. 1460–1500)

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