"Drink, aye they cried," with their parched lips; and the fiends gave
them hot lead to lap. Minstrels, it appears, are not to be found in that
dismal place:--

"Nae minstrels played to them but doubt,
For gleemen there were halden out
By day and eik by nicht:
Except a minstrel that slew a man,
So to his heritage he wan,
And entered by brieve of richt."

And to the music of the solitary poet in hell, the strange shapes pass.
The conclusion of this singular poem is entirely farcical. The devil is
resolved to make high holiday:

"Then cried Mahoun for a Hielan Padyane,
Syne ran a fiend to fetch Makfadyane,
Far north-wast in a neuck;
Be he the coronach had done shout,
Ersche men so gatherit him about,
In hell great room they took.
Thae tarmigants, with tag and tatter,
Full loud in Ersche begoud to clatter,
And roup like raven and rook.
The Devil sae deaved was with their yell,
That in the deepest pot of hell
He smorit them with smook."

There is one other poem of Dunbar's which may be quoted as a contrast to
what has been already given. It is remarkable as being the only one in
which he assumes the character of a lover. The style of thought is quite
modern; bereave it of its uncouth orthography, and it might have been
written to-day. It is turned with much skill and grace. The
constitutional melancholy of the man comes out in it; as, indeed, it
always does when he finds a serious topic. It possesses more tenderness
and sentiment than is his usual. It is the night-flower among his poems,
breathing a mournful fragrance:--

"Sweit rose of vertew and of gentilnes,
Delytsum lyllie of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie, and in beutie cleir,
And every vertew that to hevin is dear,
Except onlie that ye ar mercyles,

"Into your garthe this day I did persew:
Thair saw I flowris that fresche wer of dew,
Baith quhyte and reid most lustye wer to seyne,
And halsum herbis upone stalkis grene:
Yet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew.

"I doute that March, with his cauld blastis keyne,
Hes slane this gentill herbe, that I of mene;
Quhois pitewous deithe dois to my hart sic pane,
That I wald mak to plant his rute agane,
So comfortand his levis unto me bene."

The extracts already given will enable the reader to form some idea of
the old poet's general power--his music, his picturesque faculty, his
colour, his satire. Yet it is