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. Nathing they spared their labours, Or emmets travelling into June; Some under wrocht, and some aboon, With strang ingenious masonry, Upward their work did fortify; That till the heaven it should ascend: Twa and fifty fathoms braid: Ane fathom then as some men says, 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, Sax mile and mair it is of length: Then the great God omnipotent, And the prideful presumption, Cryand for trees, they brocht them tyld. Some said, Bring mortar here at ance, Then brocht they to them stocks and stanes; Ran ragand like ane wild lion, Menacing them with words rude, But never ane word they understood. 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, 1 Skillful mariner. F Oup and spake an eldern knight, Our king has written a braid1 letter, 'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The first word that Sir Patrick read, The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 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, The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,2 It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship 'O where will I get a gude sailor O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, 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 And mony was the feather-bed And mony was the gude lord's son The ladyes wrang their fingers white-- A' for the sake of their true loves- O lang lang may the ladyes sit, 2 Spring. 3 Loath. 4 Shoes 1 Sky. |