Chapter 9

John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem entitled 'The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the world, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the case with some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in the court a personage, entitled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) to whom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the title was, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, _i.e._, Laurelled Poet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholars when they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poets to Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Reformation had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latin tongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost a pity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, entitled 'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 'The Compound of Alchemie,' are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and nobler singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store- house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the noblest romances in this or any language --'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen- dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold; nay, whose lips, like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over which they wielded their sorcery.

We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the history of English poetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERT HENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene and Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of which Campbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,' (he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' entitled 'The Testament of Cresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit and humour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

* * * Their harboury was ta'en Into a spence,[1] where victual was plenty, Both cheese and butter on long shelves right high, With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt, And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.

After, when they disposed were to dine, Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat, On every dish that cookmen can divine, Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3] A lorde's fare thus can they counterfeit, Except one thing--they drank the water clear Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.

With blithe upcast and merry countenance, The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest, If that she thought by reason difference Betwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest. 'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?' 'For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;' 'If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.

To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought, Abundantly about her for to deal. Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil, A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8] Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.

Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair, And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high; But after joy oftentimes comes care, And trouble after great prosperity. Thus as they sat in all their jollity, The spencer came with keyis in his hand, Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose, But on to go, who might the foremost win: The burgess had a hole, and in she goes, Her sister had no place to hide her in; To see that silly mouse it was great sin, So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10] For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.

Then as God would it fell in happy case, The spencer had no leisure for to bide, Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase, But on he went and cast the door up-wide. This burgess mouse his passage well has spied. Out of her hole she came and cried on high, 'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, And for the death she was full dreadand, For to her heart struck many woful stound, As in a fever trembling foot and hand; And when her sister in such plight her fand, For very pity she began to greet, Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.

'Why lie ye thus? Rise up, my sister dear, Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.' The other answer'd with a heavy cheer, 'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast. Lever[12] I had this forty dayis fast, With water kail, and green beans and peas, Than all your feast with this dread and disease.'

With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise; To board they went, and on together sat, But scantly had they drunken once or twice, When in came Gib Hunter, our jolly cat, And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat, And to her hole she fled as fire of flint; Bawdrons[13] the other by the back has hent.[14]

From foot to foot he cast her to and frae, Whiles up, whiles down, as cant[15] as any kid; Whiles would he let her run under the strae[16] Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;[17] Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did; Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap, Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.[18]

Syne up in haste behind the panelling, So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her, And by the cluiks[19] craftily can hing, Till he was gone, her cheer was all the better: Syne down she lap, when there was none to let her; Then on the burgess mouse loud could she cry, 'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy.

Thy mangery is minget[20] all with care, Thy guise is good, thy gane-full[21] sour as gall; The fashion of thy feris is but fair, So shall thou find hereafterward may fall. I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane[22] wall, Of my defence now from yon cruel beast; Almighty God, keep me from such a feast!

Were I into the place that I came frae, For weal nor woe I should ne'er come again.' With that she took her leave, and forth can gae, Till through the corn, till through the plain. When she was forth and free she was right fain, And merrily linkit unto the muir, I cannot tell how afterward she fure.[23]

But I heard syne she passed to her den, As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit, Full beinly[24] stuffed was both butt and ben, With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat; Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat, In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread, But to her sister's feast no more she gaed.

[FROM THE MORAL.]

Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid; Blessed be sober feast in quiete; Who has enough, of no more has he need, Though it be little into quantity. Great abundance, and blind prosperity, Ofttimes make an evil conclusion; The sweetest life, therefore, in this country, Is of sickerness,[25] with small possession.

[1] 'Spence:' pantry. [2] 'Wuish:' washed. [3] 'Telyies grit:' great pieces. [4] 'Spier'd;' asked. [5] 'Sairy:' sorry. [6] 'Wait:' expect. [7] 'Threif:' a set of twenty-four. [8] 'Staw:' stole. [9] 'Creish:' grease. [10] 'rede:' counsel. [11] 'Syne:' then. [12] 'Lever:' rather. [13] 'Bawdrons:' the cat. [14] 'Hent:' seized. [15] 'Cant:' lively. [16] 'Strae:' straw. [17] 'Buik-hid:' body. [18] 'Crap:' crept. [19] 'Cluiks:' claws. [20] 'Minget:' mixed. [21] 'Gane-full:' mouthful. [22] 'Parpane:' partition. [23] 'Fure:' went. [24] 'Beinly:' snugly. [25] 'Sickerness:' security.

THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES.

Would my good lady love me best, And work after my will, I should a garment goodliest Gar[1] make her body till.[2]

Of high honour should be her hood, Upon her head to wear, Garnish'd with governance, so good No deeming[3] should her deir,[4]

Her sark[5] should be her body next, Of chastity so white: With shame and dread together mixt, The same should be perfite.[6]

Her kirtle should be of clean constance, Laced with lesum[7] love; The mailies[8] of continuance, For never to remove.

Her gown should be of goodliness, Well ribbon'd with renown; Purfill'd[9] with pleasure in ilk[10] place, Furred with fine fashioun.

Her belt should be of benignity, About her middle meet; Her mantle of humility, To thole[11] both wind and weet.[12]

Her hat should be of fair having, And her tippet of truth; Her patelet of good pansing,[13] Her hals-ribbon of ruth.[14]

Her sleeves should be of esperance, To keep her from despair; Her gloves of good governance, To hide her fingers fair.

Her shoes should be of sickerness,[15] In sign that she not slide; Her hose of honesty, I guess, I should for her provide.

Would she put on this garment gay, I durst swear by my seill,[16] That she wore never green nor gray That set[17] her half so weel.

[1] 'Gar:' cause. [2] 'Till:' to. [3] 'Deeming:' opinion. [4] 'Deir:' injure. [5] 'Sark:' shift. [6] 'Perfite:' perfect. [7] 'Lesum:' lawful. [8] 'Mailies:' eyelet-holes. [9] 'Purfill'd:' fringed. [10] 'Ilk:' each. [11] 'Thole:' endure. [12] 'Weet:': wet. [13] 'Pansing:' thinking. [14] 'Her hals-ribbon of ruth:' her neck-ribbon of pity. [15] 'Sickerness:' firmness. [16] 'Seill:' salvation. [17] 'Set:' became.

WILLIAM DUNBAR

This was a man of the true and sovereign seed of genius. Sir Walter Scott calls Dunbar 'a poet unrivalled by any--that Scotland has ever produced.' We venture to call him the Dante of Scotland; nay, we question if any English poet has surpassed 'The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell' in its peculiarly Dantesque qualities of severe and purged grandeur; of deep sincerity, and in that air of moral disappointment and sorrow, approaching despair, which distinguished the sad-hearted lover of Beatrice, who might almost have exclaimed, with one yet mightier than he in his misery and more miserable in his might,

'Where'er I am is Hell--myself am Hell.'

Foster, in an entry in his journal, (we quote from memory,) says, 'I have just seen the moon rising, and wish the impression to be eternal. What a look she casts upon earth, like that of a celestial being who loves our planet still, but has given up all hope of ever doing her any good or seeing her become any better--so serene she seems in her settled and unutterable sadness.' Such, we have often fancied, was the feeling of the great Florentine toward the world, and which--pained, pitying, yearning enthusiast that he was!--escaped irresistibly from those deep- set eyes, that adamantine jaw, and that brow, wearing the laurel, proudly yet painfully, as if it were a crown of everlasting fire! Dunbar was not altogether a Dante, either in melancholy or in power, but his 'Dance' reveals kindred moods, operating at times on a kindred genius.

In Dante humour existed too, but ere it could come up from his deep nature to the surface, it must freeze and stiffen into monumental scorn --a laughter that seemed, while mocking at all things else, to mock at its own mockery most of all. Aird speaks in his 'Demoniac,' of a smile upon his hero's brow,

'Like the lightning of a hope about to DIE For ever from the furrow'd brows of Hell's Eternity.'

Dante's smile may rather be compared to the RISING of a false and self- detected hope upon the lost brows where it is never to come to dawn, and where, nevertheless, it remains for ever, like a smile carved upon a sepulchre. Dunbar has a more joyous disposition than his Italian prototype and master, and he indulges himself to the top of his bent, but in a style (particularly in his 'Twa Married Women and the Widow,' and in 'The Friars of Berwick,' which is not, however, quite certainly his) too coarse and prurient for the taste of this age.

'The Merle and the Nightingale' is one of the finest of Moelibean poems. Beautiful is the contest between the two sweet singers as to whether the love of man or the love of God be the nobler, and more beautiful still their reconciliation, when

'Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, "Man, love God that has thee wrought." The Nightingale sang, "Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought." The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone." The Nightingale sang. "And with his death thee bought: All love is lost, but upon him alone."

_'Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small.'_

William Dunbar is said to have been born about the year 1465. He received his education at St Andrews, and took there the degree of M.A. in 1479. He became then a friar of the Franciscan order, (Grey Friars,) and in the exercise of his profession seems to have rambled over all Scotland, England, and France, preaching, begging, and, according to his own confession, cheating, lying, and cajoling. Yet if this kind of life was not propitious, in his case, to morality, it must have been to the development of the poetic faculty. It enabled him to see all varieties of life and of scenery, although here and there, in his verses, you find symptoms of that bitterness which is apt to arise in the heart of a wanderer. He was subsequently employed by James IV. in some official work connected with various foreign embassies, which led him to Spain, Italy, and Germany, as well as England and France. This proves that he was no less a man of business-capacity and habits than a poet. For these services he, in 1500, received from the King a pension of ten pounds, afterwards increased to twenty, and, in fine, to eighty. He is said to have been employed in the negotiations preparatory to the marriage of James with Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in 1503, and which our poet celebrated in his verses, 'The Thistle and the Rose.' He continued ever afterwards in the Court, hovering in position between a laureate and a court-fool, charming James with his witty conversation as well as his verses, but refused the benefices for which he petitioned, and gradually devoured by chagrin and disappointment. Seldom has genius so great been placed in a falser position, and this has given a querulous tinge to many of his poems. He seems to have died about 1520. Even after his death, misfortune pursued him. His works were, with the exception of two or three pieces, locked up in an obscure MS. till the middle of last century. Since then, however, their fame has been still increasing. In 1834, Mr David Laing, so favourably known as one of our first antiquarians, published a complete and elaborate edition of Dunbar's works; and in a newspaper this very day (May 23) we see another edition announced, in a popular and modernised shape, of the poetry of this great old Scottish _Makkar_.

THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL.

I.

Of Februar' the fifteenth night, Full long before the dayis light, I lay into a trance; And then I saw both Heaven and Hell; Methought among the fiendis fell, Mahoun[1] gart[2] cry a Dance, Of shrewis[3] that were never shrevin,[4] Against the feast of Fastern's even, To make their observance: He bade gallants go graith[5] a guise,[6] And cast up gamounts[7] in the skies, As varlets do in France.

II. * * * * * Holy harlottis in hautane[8] wise, Came in with many sundry guise, But yet laugh'd never Mahoun, Till priests came in with bare shaven necks, Then all the fiends laugh'd and made gecks,[9] Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.[10] * * * * *

III.

'Let's see,' quoth he, 'now who begins:' With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Began to leap at anis.[11] And first of all in dance was Pride, With hair wyld[12] back, and bonnet on side, Like to make wasty weanis;[13] And round about him, as a wheel, Hang all in rumples to the heel, His kethat[14] for the nanis.[15] Many proud trompour[16] with him tripped, Through scalding fire aye as they skipped, They girn'd[17] with hideous granis.[18]

IV.

Then Ire came in with sturt[19] and strife, His hand was aye upon his knife, He brandish'd like a beir; Boasters, braggers, and barganeris,[20] After him passed into pairis,[21] All bodin in feir of weir.[22] In jackis, scripis, and bonnets of steel, Their legs were chenyiet[23] to the heel, Froward was their affeir,[24] Some upon other with brands beft,[25] Some jaggit[26] others to the heft[27] With knives that sharp could shear.

V.

Next in the dance follow'd Envy, Fill'd full of feud and felony, Hid malice and despite, For privy hatred that traitor trembled; Him follow'd many freik[28] dissembled, With feigned wordis white. And flatterers into men's faces, And backbiters in secret places To lie that had delight, And rowneris[29] of false lesings;[30] Alas, that courts of noble kings Of them can never be quite![31]

VI.

Next him in dance came Covetice, Root of all evil and ground of vice, That never could be content, Caitiffs, wretches, and ockerars,[32] Hood-pikes,[33] hoarders, and gatherers, All with that warlock went. Out of their throats they shot on other Hot molten gold, methought, a fother,[34] As fire-flaucht[35] most fervent; Aye as they tumit[36] them of shot, Fiends fill'd them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.[37]

VII.

Syne[38] Sweirness[39] at the second bidding Came like a sow out of a midding,[40] Full sleepy was his grunyie.[41] Many sweir bumbard[42] belly-huddroun,[43] Many slute daw[44] and sleepy duddroun,[45] Him served aye with sounyie.[46] He drew them forth into a chenyie,[47] And Belial with a bridle-rennyie,[48] Ever lash'd them on the lunyie.[49] In dance they were so slow of feet They gave them in the fire a heat, And made them quicker of counyie.[50]

VIII.

Then Lechery, that loathly corse, Came bearing like a bagged horse,[51] And Idleness did him lead; There was with him an ugly sort[52] And many stinking foul tramort,[53] That had in sin been dead. When they were enter'd in the dance, They were full strange of countenance, Like torches burning reid. * * * * *

IX.

Then the foul monster Gluttony, Of wame[54] insatiable and greedy, To dance he did him dress; Him followed many a foul drunkart With can and collep, cop and quart,[55] In surfeit and excess. Full many a waistless wally-drag[56] With wames unwieldable did forth drag, In creish[57] that did incress; Drink, aye they cried, with many a gape, The fiends gave them hot lead to laip,[58] Their leveray[59] was no less.

X. * * * * * No minstrels play'd to them but[60] doubt, For gleemen there were holden out, By day and eke by night, Except a minstrel that slew a man; So till his heritage he wan,[61] And enter'd by brief of right. * * * * *

XI.

Then cried Mahoun for a Highland padyane,[62] Syne ran a fiend to fetch Mac Fadyane,[63] Far northward in a nook, By he the Correnoch had done shout,[64] Ersch-men[65] so gather'd him about In hell great room they took: These termagants, with tag and tatter, Full loud in Ersch began to clatter, And roup[66] like raven and rook. The devil so deaved[67] was with their yell, That in the deepest pot of hell He smored[68] them with smoke.

[1] 'Mahoun:' the devil. [2] 'Gart:' caused. [3] 'Shrewis:' sinners. [4] 'Shrevin:' confessed. [5] 'Graith:' prepare. [6] 'Guise:' masque. [7] 'Gamounts:' dances. [8] 'Hautane:' haughty. [9] 'Gecks:' mocks. [10] 'Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun:' names of spirits. [11] 'Anis:' once. [12] 'Wyld:' combed. [13] 'Wasty weanis:' wasteful children. [14] 'Kethat:' cassock. [15] 'Nanis:' nonce. [16] 'Trompour:' impostor. [17] 'Girn'd:' grinned. [18] 'Granis:' groans. [19] 'Sturt:' violence. [20] 'Barganeris:' bullies. [21] 'Into pairis:' in pairs. [22] 'Bodin in feir of weir:' arrayed in trappings of war. [23] 'Chenyiet:' covered with chain-mail. [24] 'Affeir:' aspect. [25] 'Beft:' struck. [26] 'Jaggit:' stabbed. [27] 'Heft:' hilt. [28] 'Freik:' fellows. [29] 'Rowneris:' whisperers. [30] 'Lesings:' lies. [31] 'Quite:' quit. [32] 'Ockerars:' usurers. [33] 'Hood-pikes:' misers. [34] 'Fother:' quantity. [35] 'Flaucht:' flake. [36] 'Tumit:' emptied. [37] 'Prent:' stamp. [38] 'Syne:' then. [39] 'Sweirness:' laziness. [40] 'Midding:' dunghill. [41] 'Grunyie:' grunt. [42] 'Bumbard:' indolent. [43] 'Belly-huddroun:' gluttonous sloven. [44] 'Slute daw:' slovenly drab. [45] 'Duddroun:' sloven. [46] 'Sounyie:' care. [47] 'Chenyie:' chain. [48] 'Rennyie:' rein. [49] 'Lunyie:' back. [50] 'Counyie:' apprehension. [51] 'Bagged horse:' stallion. [52] 'Sort:' number. [53] 'Tramort:' corpse. [54] 'Wame:' belly. [55] 'Can and collep, cop and quart:' different names of drinking-vessels. [56] 'Wally-drag:' sot. [57] 'Creish:' grease. [58] 'Laip:' lap. [59] 'Leveray:' desire to drink. [60] 'But:' without. [61] 'Wan:' got. [62] 'Padyane:' pageant. [63] 'Mac Fadyane:' name of some Highland laird. [64] 'By he the Correnoch had done shout:' by the time that he had raised the Correnoch, or cry of help. [65] 'Ersch-men:' Highlanders. [66] 'Roup:' croak. [67] 'Deaved:' deafened. [68] 'Smored:' smothered.

THE MERLE AND NIGHTINGALE.