Lament for the Buffistas quhen they fearéd angst

by Betsy Hanes Perry

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I that in snarking once delighted
Must own mysel' ful sore affrighted
And quaking in uncertaintie;
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

He takis both the wise and rare,
The brave, the witty, and the fair,
That we may mourn eternally,
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

That woeful wight, the prince of dread,
Stole, from sweet Willow's sheltered bed,
Sage Oz's silent mystery;
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

He forced the Slayer to right the wrong
By killing Angel(us) the strong,
And yet we bide his crueltie;
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

Each Tuesday night we shake in fear,
Lest one should perish we hold dear,
At season's end especially;
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

Though Death must capture every pawn,
"Take Glory, Ben, or even Dawn,
Spare Spike!" we plead, though vaïnly.
Timor Whedon conturbat me.

To suffering we're foredooméd all,
Since Eve and Adam first did fall,
But most when watching our Buffý,
Timor Whedon conturbat me.


Author's Notes

This is based on William Dunbar's Lament for the Makaris quhen he wes seik, which is in Old Scots, which I can't write. Furthermore, "Whedon" ought properly to be in the genitive case, but that screws up the meter, so let's all pretend it's an indeclinable noun. The chorus of the original is "Timor mortis conturbat me", which translates to "The fear of death disturbs me". Yes, I know that the Latin "me" was pronounced "may", but apparently Dunbar didn't.

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