Bruegel is so vividly astounding; his work doesn't age. And Dunbar's poem, which I haven't read in many decades, is so immediate and direct. His diction is close enough to noble Chaucer's to be readily readable. Thanks for posting this perfect combination. While I was posting this, two commuter cars collided in the rush hour downpour out front, with an impact shudder rocking the walls of the haunted house as though they were the hull of a sub taking a depth charge. I thought, Timor bloody mortis. The cats thought, Oh no, another bloody quake. Then came the emergency vehicles. William Dunbar's poem is writ in Middle Scots, the Anglic language of Lowland Scotland. Thank you for the good knowledge dal. In fact I had thought to quip, "didna ken," but that would have been wrong too. Though mortality always comes knocking on the door during a middle-of-the-night monsoon here in Orkney, there is always a speck of hope that a soaking rain will stay the Reaper till there's been a chance to make amends. Your helpful correction therefore will not go unremembered, albeit quietly as befits a boneyard, at least in the captioning of the top illustration here .