But if some day you care enough about it to master this old-world poet, you will find that there is a wonderful variety in his poems.  He can be glad and sad, tender and fierce.  Sometimes he seems to smile gently upon the sins and sorrows of his day, at other times he pours forth upon them words of savage scorn, grim and terrible.  But when we take all his work together, we find that we have such a picture of the times in which he lived as perhaps only Chaucer besides has given us.

Sir David Lyndsay.

For us the most interesting poem is The Thistle and the Rose.  This was written when Margaret, the daughter of King Henry VII of England, came to be the wife of King James IV of Scotland.  Dunbar was the “Rhymer of Scotland,” that is the poet-laureate of his day, and so, as was natural, he made a poem upon this great event.  For a poet-laureate is the King’s poet, and it is his duty to make poems on all the great things that may happen to the King.  For this he receives a certain amount of money and a cask of wine every year.  But it is the honor and not the reward which is now prized.

Dunbar begins by telling us that he lay dreaming one May morning.  You will find when you come to read much of the poetry of those days, that poets were very fond of making use of a dream by which to tell a story.  It was then a May morning when Dunbar lay asleep.

    “When March was with varying winds past,
    And April had, with her silver showers,
    Tane leave of nature with an orient blast;
    And pleasant May, that mother is of flowers,
    Had made the birds to begin their hours*
    Among the tender arbours red white,
    Whose harmony to hear it was delight.”

    Orisons — morning prayers.

Then it seemed that May, in the form of a beautiful lady, stood beside his bed.  She called to him, “Sluggard, awake anon for shame, and in mine honor go write something.”

    “‘What,’ quoth I, ’ shall I wuprise at morrow?’
    For in this May few birdies heard I sing. 
    ’They have more cause to weep and plain their sorrow,
    Thy air it is not wholesome or benign!’”

“Nevertheless rise,” said May.  And so the lazy poet rose and followed the lady into a lovely garden.  Here he saw many wonderful and beautiful sights.  He saw all the birds, and beasts, and flowers in the world pass before Dame Nature.

    “Then called she all flowers that grew in field,
    Discerning all their fashions and properties;
    Upon the awful Thistle she beheld,
    And saw him keeped* by a bush of spears;
    Considering him so able for the wars,
    A radiant crown of rubies she him gave,
    And said, ’In field go forth, and fend the lave.**

    And, since thou art a king, be thou discreet,
    Herb without virtue hold thou not of such price
    As herb of virtue and of odour sweet;
    And let no nettle vile, and full of vice,
    Mate him to the goodly fleur-de-lis,
    Nor let no wild weed full of churlishness
    Compare her to the lily’s nobleness.