In his allegorical poems--"The Golden Targe," "The Merle and the Nightingale," "The Thistle and the Rose"--Dunbar's fancy has full scope. As allegories, they are, perhaps, not worth much; at all events, modern readers do not care for the adventures of "Quaking Dread and Humble Obedience"; nor are they affected by descriptions of Beauty, attended by her fair damsels, Fair Having, Fine Portraiture, Pleasance, and Lusty Cheer. The whole conduct and machinery of such things are too artificial and stilted for modern tastes. Stately masques are no longer performed in earls' mansions; and when a sovereign enters a city, a fair lady, with wings, representing Loyalty, does not burst out of a pasteboard cloud and recite a poetical address to Majesty. In our theatres the pantomime, which was originally an adumbration of human life, has become degraded. Symbolism has departed from the boards, and burlesque reigns in its stead. The Lord Mavor's Show, the last remnant of the antique spectacular taste, does not move us now; it is held a public nuisance; it provokes the rude "chaff" of the streets. Our very mobs have become critical. Gog and Magog are dethroned. The knight feels the satiric comments through his armour. The very steeds are uneasy, as if ashamed. But in Dunbar the allegorical machinery is saved from contempt by colour, poetry, and music. Quick surprises of beauty, and a rapid succession of pictures, keep the attention awake. Now it is-- "May, of mirthful monethis queen, Betwixt April and June, her sisters sheen, Within the garden walking up and down." Now-- "The god of windis, Eolus, With variand look, richt like a lord unstable." Now the nightingale-- "Never sweeter noise was heard with livin' man, Nor made this merry, gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran Out throw the fresh and flourished lusty vale." And now a spring morning-- "Ere Phoebus was in purple cape revest, Up raise the lark, the heaven's minstrel fine In May, in till a morrow mirthfullest. "Full angel-like thir birdis sang their hours Within their curtains green, in to their hours Apparelled white and red with bloomes sweet; Enamelled was the field with all colours, The pearly droppis shook in silver shours; While all in balm did branch and leavis fleet. To part fra Phoebus did Aurora greet, Her crystal tears I saw hing on the flours, Whilk he for love all drank up with his heat. "For mirth of May, with skippis and with hops, The birdis sang upon the tender crops, With curious notes, as Venus' chapel clerks; The roses young, new spreading of their knops, Were powderit bricht with heavenly beriall drops, Through beams red, burning as ruby sparks; The skies rang for shouting of the larks, The purple heaven once scal't in silver slops, Oure gilt the trees, branches, leaves, and barks."