greatly distinguished himself at the battle of Pavia. He afterward returned again to Scotland, resumed his position at court, and was employed by his sovereign on various important foreign embassies. He died in 1557, in the sixty-first year of his age.

Lyndsay chiefly shone as a satirical and humorous writer, and his great fault is a total absence of all refinement. The principal objects of his vituperations were the clergy, whose habits, at this period, were such as to afford ample scope to the pen of the satirist. He, however, with equal freedom exposed the abuses of the court, though at the time he was a state officer of high standing, and much influence. His principal poems are, The Dreme, The Complaynt, The Complaynt of the King's Peacock, The Satire of the Three Estates, Kitteis' Confession, The History of Squire Meldrum, and The Monarchie.

The History of Squire Meldrum' is, perhaps, the most pleasing of all this author's works, and is considered the last British poem that in any degree partakes of the character of the metrical romance. This poem, together with the various other Satires and Burlesques of this author, is said to have contributed greatly to the Reformation in Scotland. 'The Monarchie' was the last of his poems. It was written just before his death, and from it we select the following curious passage :

THE BUILDING OF THE TOWER OF BABEL, AND THE CONFUSION OF TONGUES.

Their great fortress then did they found,

And cast till they gat sure ground.

All fell to work both man and child

Some howkit clay, some burnt the tyld.
Nimron, that curious champion,
Deviser was of that dungeon.

Nathing they spared their labours,
Like busy bees upon the flowers,

Or emmets travelling into June;

Some under wrocht, and some aboon,

With strang ingenious masonry,

Upward their work did fortify;
The land about was fair and plain,
And it rase like ane heich montane.
Those fulish people did intend,

That till the heaven it should ascend:
Sae great ane strength was never seen
Into the warld with men's een.
The wallis of that waik they made,

Twa and fifty fathoms braid:

Ane fathom then as some men says,
Micht been twa fathom in our days;
Ane man was then of mair stature
Nor twa be now, of this be sure.

The translator of Orosius

Intil his chronocle writes thus;

That when the sun is at the hicht,

At noon, when it doth shine maist bricht,
The shadow of that hideous strength

Sax mile and mair it is of length:
Thus may ye judge into your thocht,
Gif Babylon be heich or nocht.

Then the great God omnipotent,
To whom all things been present,
He seeand the ambition,

And the prideful presumption,
How thir proud people did pretend,
Up through the heavens till ascend,
Sic languages on them he laid,
That nane wist what ane other said;
Where was but ane language afore,
God send them languages three-score;
Afore that time all spak Hebrew,
Then some began for to speak Grew,
Some Dutch, some language Saracen,
And some began to speak Latin.
The maister men gan to ga wild,

Cryand for trees, they brocht them tyld.

Some said, Bring mortar here at ance,

Then brocht they to them stocks and stanes;
And Nimrod, their great champion,

Ran ragand like ane wild lion,

Menacing them with words rude,

But never ane word they understood.
for final conclusion,

Constrained were they for till depart

Ilk company in ane sundry airt.

Lyndsay also wrote a history of Scotland in three volumes, which, however, has never been published, but still remains in manuscript in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh.

To the poets of the period of Scottish literature which we have had under consideration in the present lecture, we shall add the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens-a poem of such antiquity that its origin even, is doubtful. The incident upon which it is founded is as follows:-In 1280, a company of distinguished noblemen attended Margaret, daughter of Alexander the Third of Scotland, when she embarked for Norway to become the bride of Eric, king of that country. On the return of these noblemen from Norway their vessel was overtaken by a violent storm, and most of them perished.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

The king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
'O where will I get a skeely skipper1
To sail this new ship of mine?'

1 Skillful mariner.

F

Oup and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee:
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.'

Our king has written a braid1 letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame!'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blindit his e’e.

And if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league, but barely three,

When the lift1 grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,2

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

'O where will I get a gude sailor
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall topmast,
To see if I can spy land?'

O here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall topmast-
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step, but barely ane,

When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in.'

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side,

-But still the sea came in.

O laith3 laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heeled shoon !4
But lang or a' the play was played,
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That floated on the faem;

And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white--
The maidens tore their hair;

A' for the sake of their true loves-
For them they'll see na mair.

O lang lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

2 Spring.

3 Loath.

4 Shoes

1 Sky.

And lang lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kairns in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear lovesFor them they 'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.