Winter weather

[wolfinthewood]

I had this passage in my mind last Thursday, as I was travelling by car through the wild weather. This is the first chance I have had to look it up.

The Scots poet Gavin Douglas made the first translation of Virgil’s Aeneid into English. He prefaced each book with an original verse prologue of his own. The prologue to Book Seven, of which this is an extract, takes the form of ‘an eloquent description of wynter wyth hys grete stormes and tempestis’. There is a lot in this passage about floods, mud, wind. Also icicles (‘isch-schoklis’). I am missing icicles very much in this strange winter; and frost even more. But there is no shortage of rain, wind and mud.

The dowy dichis war all donk and wait,
The law vaille flodderit all wyth spait,
The plane stretis and every hie way
Full of fluschis, doubbis, myre and clay.

Laggerit leys wallowit farnys schewe,
Broune muris kithit thair wysnit mossy hewe,
Bank, bra and boddum blanschit wolx and bair;
For gurll wyddir growyt bestis haire;
The wynd maid wayfe the reid weyd on the dyk;
Bedovin in donkis deyp was every syk;
Our craggis and the front of rochis seyre
Hang greit isch-schoklis lang as ony speire;
The ground stude barrand, wedderit, dosk and gray;
Herbis, flouris and girsis wallowit away;
Woddis, forestis, with nakyt bewis blowt,
Stud strypyt of thair weyd in every hout.
So bustuysly Boreas his bugil blewe,
The deyr full dern doune in the dalys drewe;
Smal byrdis, flokand throw thik ronnis thrang,
In chyrmyng and with cheping changit thair sang,
Seikand hidlis and hirnys thaim to hyde
Fra feirfull thuddis of the tempestyuus tyde.
The wattir lynnis routtis, and every lynde
Quhyslyt and brayt of the swouchand wynde.

Gavin Douglas (1475?–1522)

from The Proloug of the Sewynt Buik of Aeneados (1513)


I didn’t have time to do this this morning. I don’t really have time now, but things one doesn’t have to do are always more fun than what one is supposed to be doing.

This is, deliberately, as close to the original as I can make it. It is therefore neither modern English nor poetry; but it will help with some of the more obscure parts of the original.

The dreary ditches were all dank and wet,
The low valley all flooded with spate,
The open streets and every highway
Full of swamps, puddles, mire and clay.

Meadows sunk in bog withered ferns show,
Brown moors displayed their wizened mossy hue,
Bank, hillside and low ground blanched waxed and bare;
Because of stormy weather, shuddered the beasts' hair;
The wind made wave the red weed on the dyke;
Sunk in marshes deep was every syke;
Over crags and the front of many rocks
Hang great icicles long as any spear;
The ground stood barren, withered, dark and gray;
Herbs, flowers and grasses withered away;
Woods, forests, with naked boughs bare
Stood stripped of their clothes in every holt.
So violently Boreas his bugle blew,
The deer full secretly down in the dales drew;
Small birds, flocking through close-packed thickets,
In chattering and with cheeping changed their song,
Seeking hiding-places and corners them to hide
From fearful blows of the tempestuous tide.
The waterfalls rush, and every tree
Whistled and roared because of the shrilling wind.


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