Textualities

Depthless Ruminations on The Ticket That Exploded

Fergus — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 16:46:05 +0000

It is hinted at points in this novel that words are a virus preventing people from inner silence. If this is indeed the case then it seems like Mr Burroughs is gleefully using this principle to abuse us. When any single paragraph might have hundreds of meanings and is loaded with incidental poetry, grotesque imagery and apparent nonsense, it is hard to retain any peace of mind.

The Ticket That Exploded is the second in a trilogy in which Burroughs applies the technique of writing a paragraph then cutting up sentences from it, cutting the sentences in half, doing this multiple times and then forcing the half sentence in with an accidental partner. Thus he creates discordant bastard sentences that at best can be beautiful, provocative and intriguing, and at worst are a violent nonsensical mess that will make your brain ache trying to work out what’s happening. I think Burroughs knew this: that by using this experimental idea he would create a joyful obstruction of sense.

I consulted the internet community of wonderful nerds on how to enjoy this book. This may sound pretty stupid and indicative of someone with low intelligence (oh anonymous reader, you cold thing!), but I received rather sage advice: if you find yourself straining to find some meaning in the jumbled craziness of this trilogy, just let it wash over you. This works immensely. Sometimes Burroughs will riff on a motif that one must view as a whole. Individual sentences may not make sense but taken as an entire paragraph becomes food for yer brain. I’m still not at all sure if the actual ending of the book was at the end. This gives you an idea of what we’re dealing with and how little point there is in trying to explain the plot.

Maybe this enthusiasm sounds like the idiocy of a cult member; maybe I’ve fooled myself. Quite possibly true. From a cynic’s point of view this book is an exercise in incomprehensible indulgence filled with wilfully intense imagery. The last point certainly is true. With Burroughs it appears to be a rule of thumb that an anus must appear on every second page, ideally with many things (frog spawn, penises) in or near it. It is a self-flagellating process at times, reading this book, I admit. However, with The Soft Machine and Nova Express still to be read, there’s no time for anaesthetic.

http://textualities.net/jim-ferguson/brain-fever/

Jim Ferguson — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 17:34:00 +0000

brain fever: a sequence of poems

GERRY SMITH

admin — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 12:46:02 +0000

Gerry Smith is a text-based artist. In 1998 he graduated from Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art with a BA (Hons) in Fine Art Printmaking. In 2010 he gained an MFA (Intermedia Art) from Edinburgh College of Art. In the period in between he did stuff. He has been working with words for what seems to have been a very long time.

Influenced by OULIPO and the Fluxus artists, his concern with reductive forms has led to his very own slant on punctuation poetry. He has also published a number of books, including an anthology imaginatively entitled I am a text-based artist - Selected Words (1998-2008).

Examples of his work can be found at his website: i am a text based artist

GERRY SMITH

admin — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 12:35:34 +0000

Examples of his work can be found at his website: i am a text based artist

STEPHEN NELSON

admin — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 08:42:35 +0000

Visual poetry is under represented and under published in Scotland, so i was keen to show some here.

Temerity & Secret Talk

Pluent

Kundalini Concrete

Circumnavigation (Or The Envy of Democracies)

Affectation of the sages. Such airs! Such impertinence! We muster a common cause. A cold snap snaps shut. If I wake in time, I’ll be there. This oil has to be used. You take your cue from governments and bureaucrats. I take mine from hot air balloons. A tendency to over dramatise promotes servility. Dignity. Formality. Affection.

This is an age of barbecue and beans, a comedy of inbetweens or rebellion in a cup. Certainly not a reality I’m familiar with. How tired I am of inarticulate drunks waving banners of peace over fallen women! I’ve pledged my allegiance to space travel and flightless birds, less a surrender of will than a submission to the inchoate.

Sugar Qoating

An explosion of light on the dream screen. There are various ways to interpret what amounts to a global revolution. Your part gifted by M&S. Peace is the ability to reside within oneself regardless. It matters that I know when your birthday is.

Unable to distinguish the flame, I engineer an implosion. Omniverse. Now that I know I am infinite, I vow to no longer concern myself with matters beyond my reach. An extinguished gentleman. Karma. Power lies in the ability to ignore repeated requests to purchase recyclable carrier bags. An unfit mother. No, a full fat father. No, a son who has overcome the hollow reed of rejection.

Of all the dreams I had as a child one stands out. Holyrood or Hollywood. A papal delegation obfuscating its way through streams of insignificance. I dream of genii. I dream of Joni. Revolution in Beijing is television in Bombay, or Mumbai, or Wemyss Bay, or Wombai. My mother is an expert in the field of nutrition. She used to bake birthday cakes of a deliqious sweetness.

The Great King

The anticipation of astronauts relieved by a mild antiseptic. A woman’s top lip. You choose bed linen in accordance with the season. Aromatic stimuli. This at least is my projection. Towards an elegant euphoria.

What I dreamt once I may be about to experience as an unmistakable reality. How can I possibly communicate this without invoking the laws of my father the prophet Hezekiah? Once I dreamt of an unshakable reality enforced by a rigorous dogma. The spoils of diplomacy. Or denial. I have only twisted the essence and made us look inward. This is more about routing my being in the root of my being. Astronauts have trouble remembering the colour of grass in September.

At least I’ve not been duped by insufferable evangelists. Or, if I have, at least I haven’t gelled with duplicitous suffragettes. The position of dogs in the springtime bothers me. A sudden burst of flower arranging. Tired of the trickle, I anticipate a deluge.

Stephen Nelson sings in unknown languages & regularly throws words & images on to a blog at afterlights.blogspot.com. He can read minds at a distance of 10 paces.

COLIN HERD

admin — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 09:58:50 +0000

inspired by my babysitter’s
boyfriend, i’m studying the paintings
of Lorser Feitelson. i have had a monstrous
week and a half. a week and a half (and a half) of
large spilling slices. they suck me in to dream
like crazy of L.A.

as though i were suffering from a slipped
disk, i’m cultivating inner tranquility and
bright, chromatic abstraction. i’m swelling,
gently undulating, changing in thickness as i sway.
the first i heard of someone behind me was a tic-tac
crunched by an incisor. i know that sound. i know that
smell. i know a curtain drppn n bg clsng zp. the trouble

starts because what makes me tick, also makes me talk,
and therein lies the rub (i wish).
i am an atomiser
from which you can squeeze
a thin spray of hope (i hope):
::……………………………
………….     ………………
……….    ……..   ..   ……
.. …         …..      ..   . ..

the middle of the room is hardly
recognizable. i still have to panic
when i want something. still mushy
where it matters, you could say,
still lonesome after all these years. c
reamy silences like sssshhhh
(in a pram) but not right now
asleep at all, or having strange
dreams.

we’ll have to go
upstairs calmly, from where

i promise we’ll hear just as well.
you could hug me. because i am
an atomiser from which:
……… ……… …………… ….
……………………. . . . .
….. … ………. .. ……..
…. …. ………………. …. .
… … … … … ….
the furniture is gasping but
ignore it, it only thinks it can
pass judgment, forgets we
already own at least ten percent
of its gurgling, aching sorryful
bulk i bet. just a bunch of values
that we can refuse (pander instead
to our whims if it suits us)
so bright so bright they rot
(as i trip up on a confusing
linebreak) so bright they rot
ate longer than expected on
the hot rod, too soft, (ee), morose.

i am an atomiser from which
you can hug a thin spray of hope
i hope …………………………………
…………. ………….. ………..

i collect the autographs
of famous redheads. was d.h. lawrence
a redhead? was henri matisse? intrigue.

in the hope that they are shared,
i gargle my dreams so loud it’s obscene,

and you humour me, a couple of
licks short of sensitivity and kindness.

ken kesey? swinburne? silliman? getty iii?
blake? i got jane asher already and am holding
out for will clark. i reckon my hobby came from
somewhere but i can’t for the life of me
think where, nor why. irresolution+twitchiness.

i know your love is cap-
sized, louche & side
ways on your head,
gaudy, red, obscene,
its rim dramatically tilting,
lop-sided, sweat-stained,
old. at

the same time, i know
my personality is like
a kilt. heavy, scratchy &
tartan. when you reel, it
feels like you’re shrugging
me off to the tune of my
fiddle. i flap about you.

Colin Herd lives in Edinburgh, where he co-edits anything anymore anywhere and reviews fiction for 3:AM magazine, poetry in the blog of Chroma Journal and exhibitions for Aesthetica. Recent poems have appeared in 3:AM, Gutter, Pop Serial, Shampoo and Velvet Mafia. colin-herd.com

DOROTHY ALEXANDER

admin — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 17:50:17 +0000

Jennie Renton asked us to take over this website for a month and to do something with it; the best thing to do, we thought, would be to invite poets we know across lowland Scotland that we’ve either worked with, performed with, or whose work we like. over the next four weeks we’ll be posting the works of a Canadian ex-pat, a text artist, a performance poet and an extreme found poet, among others.

to launch this takeover, an impromptu night of readings, TROPIXTUALITIES, was held at Roxy Art House on Monday 16^th August. for a hastily arranged event, it was a great and varied night.

we encourage the leaving of comments. nick-e melville and rodney relax.

our first poet is Dorothy Alexander.

Three poems from Final Warning

– an ongoing series in which techniques developed out of found poetry are applied to a contemporary newspaper clipping. Poems are constructed from within a word pool formed by searching along and down through the base text. Letters, words, lines are then ‘re’placed in direct relation to it.

Found is posited here as an ecopoetic, not only because of its inbuilt credentials as recycler, but, more pertinently, for the non-hierarchical and inclusive nature of its processes. It invites acts of multiple attention (down to the smallest detail). It encourages heightened responsibility, in both writer and audience, for engagement with the word as depository and potential manipulator of meaning. My hope is that this dynamic of paying particular attention and taking responsibility serves as exemplar for engagement with larger issues and strengthens resistance to notions of outside agency.

The text used was an extract from the front page of The Independent on Saturday 3rd February 2007 whose banner headline was ‘Final Warning’, and which had five purported scenarios for global temperature rise by 2100 from +2.4° up to +6.4°.

Click on the fllowing links to see the poems:

sermons hurt/curb me

variations of critical

premonition from the plastic room

Poems from Final Warning have been published in How2 online journal, Black Box Manifold and in Product Magazine. A selection was exhibited at the Skylines Ecopoetics Exhibition / Language and L=A=N=D=S=C=A=P=E=S Forum at the Centre for Contemporary Art in the Natural World (www.mediaalive.co.uk/ecopoetics/) in June 2009. Links to other examples can be found at www.dorothyalexander.co.uk

Arthur Watson, Historian of Legerdeman Discovered

Richard H Evans — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 17:02:40 +0000

The foremost rule of conjuring is that the secret of a trick should never be revealed. It is therefore with some trepidation that Gordon Bruce and Bob Read’s engaging and entertaining accounts of the hunt for the mysterious Arthur Watson are followed by an exposé - a biography of their prey. However, perhaps this is one occasion when exposure of a magical mystery may be forgiven: in order to acknowledge a man whose contribution to the history of conjuring was overlooked for so long.
Arthur Watson was born in Lincoln in 1863, the youngest of five children born to Thomas Watson, an engineer, and his wife Ann. His childhood home was in Sincil Bank in the parish of St Peter at Gowts in Lincoln and he was educated at Lincoln Grammar School.
Watson’s original intention appears to have been to follow in his father’s business: in the 1881 Census of the United Kingdom, Watson’s occupation is listed as ‘machine apprentice’. However, a change of heart or of circumstances led him to alter his career ambitions and the following year he enrolled as an undergraduate student at Owens College in Manchester (now Manchester University), undertaking a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Music. As was the practice at the time, he sat the University of London examinations for the final part of his degree and was awarded his BA from the University of London in 1885.
By early 1890’s he was living in Hampstead, London. In the UK census of 1891 he listed his occupation as ‘musician’ (as he had when he registered readers’ card at the British Library the previous year). The early part of his career is unclear, but in 1910 he was working as a member of the academic staff at the University of London, where he later became secretary to the Academic Registrar.
Between 1898 and 1910 he published a number of articles in historical and antiquarian journals. Articles on the Sciopodes (1898) and the Tarasque (1901) concerned mythical creatures. These articles included depictions of these beasts in stone carvings in European cathedrals and their associations in mediaeval Christian lore. This early interest in mediaeval church carvings would prove to be his main academic focus later in life. Other articles, such as ‘Music Galleries’ (1900) and ‘Knives with Music Inscribed’ (1910) reflect his interests in music and history. Articles including ‘The Rebus‘ (1898), ‘Tumblers’ (1903), ‘The Funambulist’ (1904), ‘Jugglers’ (1907) and the two-part article ‘Conjurers’ (1909) have no clear association with his other interest - though they themselves share a common theme, being concerned with puzzles, entertainment and magic. All of these articles are scholarly works, demonstrating a remarkable depth of research and breadth of knowledge in each area.
It remains uncertain whether Watson had an interest in conjuring. There is no record of him having been a member of The Magic Circle or any other magical association. However, there are a few subtle hints in his article ‘Conjurers’ that suggest he may have had more than a passing interest in the art. In the opening paragraph of ‘Conjurers’, he states “Never were more wonderful feats accomplished than are performed at the present time”, indicating a familiarity with the performances of conjurers. Further evidence of his experience of contemporary magicians comes later in the same article, when he states “The conjurer of the present day usually attempts to interest his spectators, not merely by the tricks he performs…but also by his accompanying remarks”, adding the opinion that “conjuring may be effective without speech”. He also uses the word “patter” (still in use today) to describe the words used by magicians during their performance. Evidence of Watson having a more significant interest in magic - or perhaps another example of the meticulousness of his research?
Arthur was not the only academic in the Watson family. His brother, Foster Watson, was Professor of Education at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth from 1895-1913. Foster Watson was a highly-respected educationist, whose interests also included philosophy and literature. He had a particular interest in the life and work of Joannes Ludovicus Vives, the 16th-Century Spanish humanist and educational theorist, whose work is quoted several times in his younger brother Arthur’s article ‘Conjurers’. Evidence, perhaps, that the brothers cooperated in this endeavour.
Following the publication of his article ‘Knives with Music Inscribed’ in 1910, there was an hiatus of eighteen years before his next publication, when he would have been 65 years old. Later in life, he developed an academic expertise in mediaeval Christian iconography, and in particular, depictions of the Tree of Jesse (illustrating the descent of the Messiah from Jesse of Bethlehem, based on a passage from the biblical book of Isaiah). It seems likely that this was an interest that he was able to cultivate during his long retirement. He completed a substantial amount of research in this area, which led to him being awarded a PhD in 1935 at the age of 72. The records of the University of London show that his Doctorate was awarded to him as an external candidate and not as an honorary degree - a significant achievement. Watson’s doctoral thesis ‘The Early Iconography of the Tree of Jesse’ was later published, and is still cited in present-day texts.
Arthur Watson died of pneumonia on the 15th January 1954 at the age of 91. As far as can be established, he never married and did not have any children. He was predeceased by his brother Foster (died 1929), who had married late in life and also died childless. Watson’s estate at the time of his death was valued at £7,100. The principal beneficiaries of his Will were his housekeeper and his sister-in-law - Foster’s widow. He also made bequests to the Department of Manuscripts at the British Museum, the National Institute for the Blind, societies for the humane treatment of animals, and to several friends and former colleagues at the University of London. As Bob Read discovered, his collection of academic papers and photographs were bequeathed to the Warburg Institute with which he had a longstanding association.
Arthur Watson was cremated at Golders Green crematorium in London and, in accordance with his Will, his ashes were scattered. There is therefore no gravestone or memorial in his name: he remains characteristically elusive to the last.

Also see http://textualities.net/gordon-bruce/watson-sherlocked/

Sources

1. United Kingdom censuses: 1851 1861, 1871, 1881, 1891.

2. University of London General Register Part 3, page 711.

3. Encyclopaedia Britannica Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, Literature and General Information. 11th Ed, Vol X: Evangelical Church to Francis Joseph, Encyclopaedia Britannica Company, New York, 1910.

4. Athena (1920).

5. University of London, Senate House Library. Index to theses, ref 0-11297.

6. C. R. Chapple, ‘Watson, Foster (1860-1929)’, rev. M. C. Curthoys, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004.

7. Death certificate of Arthur Watson

8. The Will of Arthur Watson

9. Calendars of the Grants of Probate and Letters of Administration (England and Wales).

10. Bob Read. Searching for Arthur Watson in Textualities 1 - Magic Afoot: Rosslyn Lore and More, (Ed: Jennie Renton); Edinburgh (2006). ISBN 0955289602.

Arthur Watson: Publications
1898 Glimpses of the Anglo Saxon Boy. The Educational Review, June 1898.

1898 Sciopodes. The Reliquary & Illustrated Archaeologist, October 1898; Vol 4: pp. 269-270.

1898 The Rebus. Antiquary, December 1898; Vol 34: pp. 368-373.

1900 Music Galleries. Musical News, December 22nd 1900; Vol 19, No 512: p 541.

1901 The Tarasque. The Antiquary, August 1901; Vol 37, No 140: pp. 234-239.

1903 Tumblers. The Reliquary & Illustrated Archaeologist, July 1903; Vol 9: pp. 186-202.

1904 The Funambulist. The Reliquary & Illustrated Archaeologist, October 1904; Vol 10: pp. 217-231.

1907 Jugglers. The Reliquary & Illustrated Archaeologist, January 1907; Vol 13: pp. 1-16.

1909 Conjurers: Part 1. The Reliquary & Illustrated Archaeologist, April 1909; Vol 15: pp. 81-100.

1909 Conjurers: Part 2. The Reliquary and Illustrated Archaeologist, July 1909; Vol 15: pp. 176-191.

1910 Knives with music inscribed. T. Lea Southgate & Arthur Watson; Musical News 1910.

1928 The Speculum Virginum with special reference to the Tree of Jesse. Speculum (3) 1928 pp 445-69.

1934 Early Iconography of the Tree of Jesse. London: Oxford University Press, 1934.

1938 Mary in the burning bush. Journal of the Warburg Institute, Vol 2, No 1, July 1938: pp 69-70.

1947 Saligia. Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 1947; vol 10: pp 148-150.

1947 Manuscript of Virginum Speculum in the Walters Art Gallery. Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, vol 10 1947: pp 61-74.

1953 Catalogue of Trees of Jesse in XIII and XIV centuries. Typed manuscript, Warburg Institute

1957 The Imagery of the Tree of Jesus on the West front of Orvieto Cathedral. In: Gordon, D.J. (Ed): Fritz Saxl, 1890-1948: a volume of memorial essays from his friends in England. pp 136-146.

From the Ganga to the Tay

admin — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 11:50:17 +0000

It is a pleasure, not to mention a challenging and rewarding experience, to immerse oneself in this epic poem of discovery over and over again, fishing out a new catch every time. From the Ganga to the Tay twists and turns through the pages in rivers of narrative on the banks of which are colour photographs by the author herself and by Scottish artist Kenny Munro, with whom she has collaborated on a number of arts projects. As Munro has observed: ‘The mythical qualities of Indian rivers is profound, with daily rituals imprinted in community consciousness. Scotland’s rivers were also recognised as the life blood of mother earth, and considered sacred, but cultural evolution seems to have clouded our ancestors’ respect for Scotland’s most powerful river, the Tay.’
Bashabi Fraser’s unique calligramatic poem gives voice to the Indian River Ganga (Ganges) and the Scottish River Tay, personified and entwined in a dialogue which evokes the sacred significance of these two vital water sources. The cultures of the people who live on their banks are described from a multitude of perspectives: as befits a social scientist, poet, writer and commentator who is highly active in developing the links between India and Scotland, Fraser draws into this poem every possible thread from what has been a complex tapestry of exchange and separateness, similarity and difference. Folklore and religion are explored in such a way as to draw out the diversity of tradition, the power of the Hindu belief system being met by the Celtic. As well as aesthetic and artistic facets, she tackles politics and economics - unusual poetic fare, but her commitment is holistic. Showing how deeply the exchange of culture and goods has marked the India-Scotland experience, she explores experiences of the two diasporas - of Scots to India and of Indians to Scotland.
However, as a post-Midnight child, Fraser avoids easy criticism of the British Raj. Hers is a more nuanced attitude, inflected with the values of Patrick Geddes, whose correspondence with Rabindranath Tagore she has edited; the influence of these visionaries is palpable in her approach. Guided throughout by the author’s steady moral compass and the value she places on sustained ecological and social diversity, From the Ganga to the Tay brings out of myriad contrasts an awareness of the fragility of ancient wisdom in a nuclear world.

Marc Sherland

From the Ganga to the Tay by Bashabi Fraser is published by Luath Press ISBN 1-906307-95-4.

In the art of Bashabi Fraser the cultures of India and Scotland richly blend, and in this magnificent poem the two living traditions speak to each other through the riverine oracles of the Ganges and the Tay.
RICHARD HOLLOWAY

A rich blend of mythic, historical, and geographical storytelling, her poem explores aspects of India and Scotland from a radically unusual perspective, paying tribute to the close links between both post-colonial nations.
MARIO RELICH

Buy From the Ganga to the Tay here:
http://www.luath.co.uk/acatalog/From_the_Ganga_to_the_Tay_.html

Find out more about Bashabi Fraser at http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/contacts/bashabi-fraser

Bashabi Fraser discussing the relationship between Rabindranath Tagore and Patrick Geddes
http://patrickgeddes.co.uk/interview_bashabi.html

Kenny Munro’s exhibitions and projects are described at
http://www.kennymunrosculpture.com/

A Moose Loose Aboot the Hoose

Michael Lister — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 15:03:51 +0000

ROBERT BURNS

To A Mouse
On Turning Her Up In Her Nest, With The Plough,
November 1785

Ad Murem
Nidis Aratro Eversis

from

James Grahame
Poems in English, Scotch, and Latin

Printed for the Author by J. Neilson
Paisley
1794

The Burns industry in Scotland enjoyed a busy year in 2009, what with the Homecoming Festival, a three-day conference at Glasgow University, and the publication of three rival biographies, along with all manner of other sorts of events and tributes to mark, in case anyone had forgotten, the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the poet’s birth.

James Grahame’s tribute to Burns, however, is not of recent date. As Burns collectors will know, it was first published in 1794, and as far as can be ascertained this work has not been reprinted in modern times. Not that any claims are being made for it as ‘The Last Great Burns Discovery’ - that unlikely subject was more than adequately treated by Hugh MacDiarmid in 1934 in his irreverent short story of that name.

From the middle ages, when literary works were being created in vernacular languages across Europe, there existed at the same the practice of translating vernacular poetry into Latin. Indeed, at the height of the Renaissance, there flourished in Scotland a number of Latinist poets that included George Buchanan and Arthur Johnston. Such was the interest in composition in this classical language that it concerned not just the creation of new, original works, but extended to the latinisation of work of other writers, for example Henryson’s Testament of Cresseid underwent this transformation by the English writer Francis Kynaston, who had also given the same treatment to some of Chaucer’s work. Coming as a late example of the practice, James Grahame’s tribute to Burns nevertheless belongs to that tradition. (An even later example is Alexander Leighton’s 1862 The Principal Songs of Robert Burns Translated into Medieval Latin Verse, and which won the praise of Thomas Carlyle.)

The volume in which Grahame’s translation appears was first published anonymously and printed for the author by J. Neilson in Paisley, the author having ‘imposed secrecy as to his name.’ It may be of interest to some that the poet’s great-grand-nephew was Kenneth Grahame, who wrote The Wind in the Willows, and that both were kinsman of the traveller, writer and politician R B Cunninghame Graham.

According to the hand-written note on the title-page of the British Library’s copy of Poems in English, Scotch, and Latin, (BL 11632f51), James Grahame, 1765-1811, was ‘a son of a respectable gentleman of Glasgow…bred to the law, he began his career as a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh’, and was admitted Advocate in 1795. Like Burns, he was a radical in politics, though unlike Burns, Grahame later became an Anglican clergyman. Grahame was satirised, as was Burns and others too, by Byron in his poem, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers:

                                    Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
                                    Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
                                    In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
                                    Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
                                    And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
                                    And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
                                    Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

Byron’s own footnote reads: ‘Mr Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under the name of Sabbath Walks and Biblical Pictures.’

In my transcription of ‘Ad Murem’, I was assisted by Latdict.com, ‘a free, online English-Latin dictionary for the poor and curious’. As for any infelicities in the transcription, mea culpa!

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pattle.

EHEU, parva nitedula, qualis nunc tremor implet
Pectora! ne subito celeri te proripe cursu;
Insectari te nollem rulla truculenta.

            I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
                                    Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion,
                                    An’ fellow mortal!

Naturæ imperio humano fœdus sociale
Ruptum mi dolet, et justam me dicere cogit
Illam suspicionem, qua sit ut exsilis a me
Terrigena comite, in terram tecum redituro.

            I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
                                    ‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
                                    An’ never miss’t.

Haud equidem dubito quin tu furere aliquando.
Quidni? animal miserum, te certe vivere oportet.
Granum e mergite tota, ecce petitio parva!
Grana a te sumpto, damnum haud dignoscere possum;
Et mihi quod superest cœlo fausto fruar illo.

            Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
                                    O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s win’s ensuin,
                                    Baith snell an’ keen!

Angusta illa domus mœstam dat fracta ruinam;
Structuram invalidam spectas dispergere ventos;
Nec virides ullas stipulas, illam ad renovandam,
Usquam suppeditant arva. Interea imminet asper
Mordaces referens ventos acresque December.

            Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
                                    Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
                                    Out thro’ thy cell.

Agros tu nudatos vastatosque, hyememque
Vidisti tristem properantem; spemque sovebas,
Obtecta hic ut contra aquilones degere posses;
At scindit nidos crudeli vomere aratrum.

            That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,
                                    But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
                                    An’ cranreuch cauld!

Congeries hæc culmorum exigua et foliorum,
Trito dente fuit, multo et convecta labore;
Nunc operam perdisti, et tectis exul ademptis,
Frigus acerbum perferres pluviasque nivales.

            But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
                                    Gang aft agley,
An’ leave us nought but grief an’ pain,
                                    For promis’d joy!

Sed non indicium tu, parva nitedula, solas es,
Quam vana est mens prudens et præsaga futuri:
Consiliis, quæ muribus et mortalibus ægris
Arte ineuntur summa, haud raro casus iniquus
Accidit: et, speratæ lætitiæ vice, crebro
Nil inventum est præter tristitiam atque dolorem.

            Still thou are blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e
                                    On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
                                    I guess an’ fear!

Attamen haud incertum est, præ me te esse beatum;
Hora etenim præsens solum te tangere possit;
Quum retro, inque dies mœstos mea lumina verto,
Et quamvis non prævideo, auguror atque tremisco.