"We that here in Hevenis glory ...
I mean we folk in Paradyis
In Edinburgh with all merriness."
And perhaps the young Gavin and the old Dunbar in their common fellowship of poetry, would drink a glass of red wine in memory of friends passed into death's dateless night—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
"He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slaine with his schour of mortall haill....
In Dunfermelyne he had done rovne
With Maister Robert Henrisoun."
And Dunbar, who was so much more human than Gavin, if older, would quote those immortal new lines of Henryson—
"Robene sat on gude grene hill
Kepand a flok of fe,
Mirry Makyne said him till,
Robene, thow pity on me."
While Gavin, so much elder than his looks, and mindful of Scottish as well as of Trojan history, would quote from Blind Harry in the name of Wallace—
"I grant, he said, part Inglismen I slew
In my quarrel, me thocht nocht halff enew.
I mowyt na war but for to win our awin (own).
To God and man the rycht full weill is knawin (known)."
Then Dunbar would wrap his rich red robe about him—I hope he wore it on ordinary days, or were there any when James the Fourth was king?—and stride back, through the Canongate to Holyrood, back to the court, where he would meet with young David Lindsay, of a different sort from young Gavin Douglass. And they would chuckle over "Kitteis Confessioun," a dialogue between Kitty and the curate, which Lindsay had just written—and would not Dunbar be gracious and show it to the King?
Quod he, "Have ye na wrangous geir?"
Quod scho, "I staw ane pek o' beir."
Quod he, "That suld restorit be,
Tharefore delyver it to me."
Quod he, "Leve ye in lecherie?"
Quod scho, "Will Leno mowit me."
Quod he, "His wyfe that sall I tell,
To mak hir acquentance with my-sell."
Quod he, "Ken ye na heresie?"
"I wait nocht quhat that is," quod scho.
Quod he, "Hard he na Inglis bukis?"
Quod scho, "My maister on thame lukis."
Quod he, "The bischop that sall knaw,
For I am sworne that for to schaw."
Quod he, "What said he of the King?"
Quod scho, "Of gude he spak naething."
Quod he; "His Grace of that sall wit,
And he sall lose his lyfe for it."
Perhaps Warbeck was listening, Perkin Warbeck who pretended to be Duke of York, pretended to the English crown. So Scotland harboured him, and Holyrood was hospitable to him. James married him to Lady Jane Gordon, and for years, until he wearied of it, maintained a protectorate over this pinchbeck Pretender.