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O Saw ye my dearie, my Phely? O saw ye my dearie, my Phely? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new Love, She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she, my dearest, my Phely? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee her Willy. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phley! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.
This is a poem by Robert Burns. It was written in 1794 and is read here by Cal Macaninch.
With the death of the polymath, George Buchanan, on this day in 1581, Scotland lost perhaps the greatest intellectual 'all rounder' it has ever produced. Buchanan was a superstar of sixteenth century scholarship. Swift to ally himself with the ideas of the Renaissance but slow to join the Reformation, he nevertheless did become an enthusiastic Protestant, rising as a layman, to be Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. In Buchanan's honour we present a poem that lets the Bard show off his Latin, a language his home schooling had given him a little knowledge of. As originally printed, the title carried the bracketed phrase (qusi dicat Phillis),'as one should say, Phillis'.
Donny O'Rourke
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