Margaret Winefride Simpson

JUNE NICHTS (Victor Hugo)

The flouer-decked fields sweet fragrance sheds aroon'
In Simmer when the hin'maist daylicht's gane;
The ear still herkens fain for ilka soon',
While Sleep, hauf-herted, steeks the een in vain.
Stars skinkles clearer, shaidaes kin'lier lies;
Heeven's heichts is cleid wi a faint gloamin licht;
An like some canny gaist the lift doon-bye
Dawin, white-faced, wanners an waits a' nicht.


Green an bonnie were the place,
Bi dews o heeven blest;
Blossomed there withooten cease
Flouers the luveliest;
Rowth o bloom frae day to day
Gaitherin there gin ane micht gae,
I'd seek a road aye there to hae
Whaur your fit micht rest!
Constant were the breest an true,
Leal to Luve's behest;
Were its kin'ness ne'er wi rue,
Ne'er wi duil opprest;
Kent this breest nae ither care
Ilka virtue save to share,
I'd seek a place aye siccar there
Whaur yer broo micht rest!
Fragrant as a rose were Luve
In a dream confest;
Ilka dawin did it prove
O new sweets possessed;
In that dream sae fain to faul',
Heeven-halaed, saul to saul
I'd seek a bield, withoot devaul,
Whaur yer hert micht rest!

ANITHER SANG (Victor Hugo)

Sweet lassie, whaurfore slumber still,
Sae laith yer ha' door to unclose?
Dawin's born abuin the hill,
Wauken wi the waukenin rose!
O, liltin hear
Yer true luve gang,
Wi aye a teir
Ahint the sang!
"I am Day!" dis Dawin cry,
While, clamourin aboot yer doors,
"Muisic," says the bird, "am I!"
"I am Luve!" my hert implores.
O, liltin hear
Yer true luve gang,
Wi aye a teir
Ahint the sang!
Wumman, angel, loed, adored,
For yer saul my luve is gien
In fulfilment bi the Lord,
For yer luveliness my een!
O, liltin hear
Yer true luve gang,
Wi aye a teir
Ahint the sang!


Hark! - Like to soon's arisin frae an unseen nest,
A murmurin o voices, o lauchter laich an clear,
An fit-steps frae the wuds' far distant depths draws near.
An lo! Across the forest that streetches still an braid,
Whaur siller muinlicht lies in dreamin splendour spreid,
Kent bi its tinklin bell, the guitar o Innsbruck's hills
Wi tender note an tremulous the seelence sweetly thrills,
Till mony an echo quivers in the air on ilka side
As saft the soon' gangs dirlin throu a' the wudland wide;
Syne in the muisic mingles a man's voice whilk, or lang,
Is heard wi gaitherin clearness faintly soondin in a sang.
"Lat's weave a day-dream, gin ye will!
On palfreys twa lat's mount, an syne,
While birds sings ben the wudlands still,
I'll be your captor, ye'll be mine!
"Your conquest an your conqueror I;
Lat's hence or close o day betide!
Wi Joy for steed I'll tak the wey,
An Luve sall be the ane ye'll ride.
"We'll gar them journey heid to heid,
An aye a canny gate they'll gae,
While gey an aft whauron to feed
A rowth o kisses they sall hae.
"Come! restless noo awa to win
Wait yon twa sweet dream-steeds o oors-
Mine my desire's deep hert within,
Deep in the hert o heeven yours.
"Oor duils, oor blisses, on the road
Lat's cairy wi's as furth we fare,
Oor lovers' vous for lichtsome load,
Forby the fair flouer o your hair!
"Come! dim wi nicht the aik appears;
The chains ye've set my hert aroon'
Yon sparrae in the bygaun hears
An, twitterin, mocks their blythesome soon'.
"Nae wyte o mine't will be ava
Gin side bi side thegither noo
Forest an hill sall see us twa
An sichna saftly: 'Lat us loe!'
"Come, be ye fond, fou fain am I!
O for yon dewy dens sae green!
Waukened frae sleep, the butterflee
Follaein your sweetness sall be seen!
"The envious nicht-bird's ee, the while
We pass, sall open roon' an wae;
Within the grots the nymphs sall smile
An cowp their urn as by we gae,
"An say: 'O fuilish that we be!
It's Hero wi Leander still;
An herkenin to their fond wirds, see,
We've loot oor watter cowp an spill!'
"Throu Austria lat's tak the gate
Wi faces to the dawin set!
An ye'll be rich, an I'll be great,
Sin ilk sall loe the ither yet.
"Lat's tak the gate bi land an hie
Upon oor bonnie palfreys twa
Towards yon glamorous blue whaur lies
Strange, shinin mysteries hine awa!
"Into the inn we'll gang awhile,
An there the host in turn we'll pey-
You wi yer bricht young lassie's smile,
I wi my young lad's blythe 'Guid-day!'
"A lady you, an earl mysel!
Come! in my hert flouers luve's delyte!
Come! an we twa this tale will tell
To a' the skinklin stars o nicht!"
Yet sweetly for a space bides lingerin on the tune
Whaur staun' yon trees sae wan aneth the silent muin,
An syne it tremblin dees, an fades the voice until
Quait, like a sattlin bird, it growes ance mair; an a' is still.

ECSTASY (Victor Hugo)

Alane beside the restless waves ae starry nicht I stuid
When naither sail was on the sea, nor in the lift a clood;
Ayont the warl' o sense I saw wi mair than mortal sicht,
While hill, an forest, an the hale o natur faur an near,
Thegither wi ae murmurin voice an answer seemed to speir
O ocean's surgin wave, an o heeven's skinklin licht:
An a' the shinin gowden stars, in endless hosts arrayed,
Baith laich an lood, wi hermonies ten hunner, clearly said,
As doon their leemin croons o fire they bowed wi ae accord;-
An a' the blue waves that are nae to haud nor bin', forby,
As doon their foamin crests they boued, made ilka ane reply:
-Oor Sovereign God we awn, oor Sovereign God an Lord!


Sin here ablo maun ilka saul
To some-ane seek to gie
Its sweetness aye withoot devaul,
Its licht or melody;
Sin here for taiken aye to ser'
Still ilka thing bestows
On what its luve is set sae-e'er
Its thorn or radiant rose;
Sin to the aiken-tree Aprile
A pleasant murmurin gies,
An nicht to duil, in sleep awhile,
Forgetfuness an ease;
Sin gies the kin'ly air anew
The birdie to the bough,
An dawin fair a drap o dew
To a' the flouers that growes;
Sin, lan'wards as it wins in-by,
Ilk wave o the saut sea,
Contented there at rest to lie,
The shore a kiss maun gie;
My gift I offer in this oor
Attour thee bendin fain;
The best I hae within my pouer
I gie thee for thy ain!
Syne tak my thocht that else wad rue
An wantin thee is wae,
That comes to thee as't were a dew
Whilk cleid in tears maun gae!
Tak, O my luve, the vous I mak
In ceaseless homage peyed,
An o my ilk day pray thee tak
The shinin an the shade!
My happiness, o rapture fou,
That free o dootin gangs,
An the endearments, fond an true,
O a' my sweetest sangs!
My speerit whilk at hazard taks,
Withooten sail, its wey,
An, but for thy ee's brichtness, lacks
A' star for steerin bi!
My Muse, that ilk oor in a dream
Saft cradles as it fleets,
That, greetin aye when thoo dis seem
Tearfu, aften greets!
Tak, my delyte an bliss divine,
Tak, O my luvely ane,
My hert to whilk, gin luve it tine,
Nae treasure sall remain!

SANG (Victor Hugo)

Come! Sweet's yon stowlins measure
The dewy dens amang:
Maist rowth o peace an pleasure
Is in the shepherd's sang!
Whaur aik-trees shades the river
Win's steer the watters sweir:
The wee birds' sang is ever
The blythest sang to hear!
Ne'er fash for ane or ony!
Lat's loe nor e'er hae duin!
The sang o luve is bonny
A' ither sangs abuin!


When in oor hame on yonder hill,
Whaur watters rins an brainches twines,
Thegither we were dwallin still
Aside the murmurin wids langsyne,
But ten years auld she was an I,
Thrice ten, was a' the warl' to her:
(Whaur shaidaes o the green trees lie
O, sweet the gresses sich an steer!)
My lot fou happy syne she made,
My labour licht, my lift a' blue;
When fondly she "My faither!" said
"My God!" my hale hert cried anew.
Aye to her voice I herkened fain
My endless musin's in atween,
An shaidaes left my broo again
Tint in the shinin o her een.
When in my ain her haun I'd faul'
Nae princess wore a prooder air;
For flouers she socht withoot devaul,
For puir fowk in ilk thoroughfare.
Hid frae the een o a' aroon'
Her gifts she ever stowlins gae;
O, bonnie was the wee bit goon
That ance, ye min', she eesed to hae!
Beside me in the caunle-licht
She'd bide, laich prattlin, bi her lane,
While wan moths, flitterin throu the nicht,
Cam duntin at the glowin pane.
Mirrored in her the angels were;
Hoo sweet the greetin she wad gie!
Heeven made her ee a dwallin fair
For that clear leuk whilk ne'er can lee.
O, yet sae young, that Fate sud hae
Vouchsafed to me this dear delyte!
Bairn was she o my dawin day,
The star that made my mornin bricht!
In yon braw months, when ower the cloods
The clear, bricht muin majestic rade,
Hoo aft we daunered throu the wids,
Or ower the hauch thegither gaed!
Syne, roon' the neuk o yon auld wa'
To whaur ae glimmerin licht its lane
Shone frae oor dwallin dark, we twa
Back bi the glen returned again;
An spak returnin, herts afire,
O heeven wi splendours a' arrayed:
Her min' was formed to my desire
As hinny bi the bee is made.
Blythe was she winnin hame at last,
Angel o fairest innocence!...
Noo a' thir things is gane an past
As passes win' or shaidae hence!

IN THE WIDS (Gérard de Nerval)

The bird is born an sings in Spring-
Hae ye ne'er smiled to herken then?
Sae simple't is, sae sweet a thing,
A birdie's sang the wids faur ben!
The bird in Simmer seeks his mate-
Ance but to loe, ance luve to ken!
Hoo siccar't is, hoo douce an quait,
A birdie's nest the wids faur ben!
Seelent the bird gin Autumn-tide
Afore frost blauds the leafy den!
Alack!--Yet peacefu maun betide
A birdie's daith the wids far ben!

BARBERINE'S SANG (Alfred de Musset)

Braw knicht depairtin for the war,
Awa sae faur
What gars ye gae?
Kenna ye mirk the nicht dis fa',
An nocht ava
The warl' but wae?
Ye that believes a luve forhooed
Thus banished could
Frae memory be-
Alack! Ye seekers o renown,
Your fair dreams flown
Ye'll likewice see!
Braw knicht depairtin for the war,
Why gang sae far
A gate frae here?
I gang to grieve that I loot guile
Tell me my smile
Was unco dear!

FORTUNIO'S SANG (Alfred de Musset)

O, gin ye think I'll ever seek
To tell wha I daur loe-
Nae for a kingdom wad I speak
The lassie's name to you!
Noo, sud it your guid pleasure prove,
We'll sing a roundelay,
We'll sing that constant is my luve
An gowden-fair the mey.
Whate'er her fancy mey ordain
Dear is that darg to me,
An, gin she need it, free an fain
To her my life I'll gie.
Frae tholin a' the bitter scaith
That comes o luve onkent
Sae is my speerit unto daith
Wi duil an sorrow rent.
But weel I loe, ower weel to say
On wha that luve is set,
An dee I sall for my sweet mey
But never name her yet!

MIN' ON THE DAYS BYGANE! (Alfred de Musset)

Min' on the days bygane when Dawn at last
Her ha' enchanted to the Sun sets wide;
Min' on the days bygane when slowly past
Nicht 'neth her siller veil dis dreamin glide;
Whene'er thy bosom thrabs in swift response to pleasure's ca',
When turns thy thochts to tenderness as shades o gloamin fa's,
Hark, in the forest lane
Hoo a voice murmurs fain:
Min' on the days bygane!
Min' on the days bygane when, peetiless,
Fate haes forever pairted me frae thee;
When wi the duil that years an exile fess
This hert, disconsolate, sall withered be;
Think syne upon my sorrowin luve, yon hinmaist, fond fareweel,
For sinnerin an time are nocht when luve itsel is leal!
Beatin while it remain
My hert sall murmur fain:
Min' on the days bygane!
Min' on the days bygane when evermair
My broken hert sall sleep 'neth yirth sae cauld;
Min' on the days bygane when sweetly there
Abuin my grave the lane flouer sall unfauld:
Me thoo'll behaud nae mair; but like a sister by thy side
Forever leal sall my immortal saul, returnin, bide:
Hark, in the nicht sall mane
A voice that murmurs fain:
Min' on the days bygane!

TO MADAME M... (Alfred de Musset)

Na, even tho ance mair a bitter pain
To steer in this deid hert micht hae the pouer;
Na, even tho upon my peth again
A buddin hope micht aiblins bloom an flouer;
Tho weel the grace an guilelessness in thee,
Compassionate, micht chairm me even noo,
Dear innocent, it were vain for sic as me
Ever to daur sic-like as thee to loe!
Yet Fate some day to thee an oor maun fess-
O, syne on a' my leal devotion min'!-
When the hale warl' ye'll coont as naethingness:
Thoo'll fin', alike in joy or in distress,
My haun to haud thy ain in tenderness,
An my sad hert to herken unto thine.

SADNESS (Alfred de Musset)

My strength I've tint, my life forby,
My licht hert an my freen's beside;
I've tint, nae less, the very pride
That ance gart glory come my wey.
I reckoned her a freen' an guide
When first acquant wi Truith was I,
But, better kent, I'll nae deny
Her weys I couldna thole nor bide.
Yet that she's daithless nane can dout,
An they that Truith haes duin withoot
Haes missed a' guid that Life haes gien.
God speaks, an ane maun answer mak;
Hert in the thocht alane I tak
O tears that whiles haes dimmed my een.

AUGUST NICHT (EXTRACT) (Alfred de Musset)

As throu the glen I gaed a bird
To sing within its nest begood;
There in the nicht, unseen, unheard,
Haed perished a' its weel-luved brood:
Natheless it sang to greet the day...
Wi murnin, O my Muse, hae duin!
That tines his a' God still sall hae,
Hope here ablo, an God abuin.

FAREWEEL! (Alfred de Musset)

Fareweel! I'll see nae mair o thee
For Heeven dis pairtial prove
Wylin thee an mislippenin me
That learns throu loss my luve!
Awa wi tears! I scorn to speir
What Fate mey hae in store;
Smilin I'll see yon sail appear
To bear thee frae this shore!
Thoo furth the gate dis hopefu gang,
An pridefu thoo'll return
Kennin them ne'er again that lang
Thy absence noo sall murn!
Fareweel! A dream fou braw thoo'll hae,
A dangerous delyte;
The star that rises on thy wey
Sall dazzle lang thy sicht!
A leal hert's worth to awn, mibbie,
Ye'll some day yet be fain,
What bliss the kennin o't can gie,
The tynin o't what pain!