"May nane pass through your principall gates For stink of haddocks and of skates, For cryin' of carlines and debates, For fensome flytings of defame. Think ye not shame Before strangers of all estates That sic dishonour hurt your name? "Your stinkand schule that standis dirk Halds the light from your Parroche Kirk, Your forestairs makis your houses mirk Like na country but here at hame Think ye not shame, Sa little policie to work In hurt and sklander of your name? "At your hie Croce, where gold and silk Should be, there is but curds and milk, And at your Tron but cokill and wilk, Pansches, puddings, of Jok and Jame. Think ye not shame Kin as the world sayis that ilk In hurt and sklander of your name?" Thus old Edinburgh rises before us, beautiful and brave as she is no longer, yet thronged about the Netherbow Port, and up towards the Tron, the weighing-place and centre of city life, with fishwives and their stalls, with rough booths for the sale of rougher food, and with country lasses singing curds and whey, as they still did when Allan Ramsay nearly four hundred years after succeeded Dunbar as laureate of Edinburgh. Notwithstanding, however, these defects the Scottish capital continued to be the home of all delights to the poet-priest. When his King was absent at Stirling, Dunbar in the pity of his heart sang an (exceedingly profane) litany for the exile that he might be brought back, prefacing it by the following compassionate strain:-- "We that are here in Hevinis glory To you that are in Purgatory Commendis us on our hairtly wyiss, I mean we folk in Paradyis, In Edinburgh with all merriness To you in Strivilling in distress, Where neither pleasance nor delyt is, For pity thus ane Apostle wrytis. "O ye Heremeitis and Hankersaidillis That takis your penance at your tabillis, And eitis nocht meit restorative Nor drinkis no wyne comfortative Bot aill, and that is thyn and small, With few courses into your hall; But (without) company of lordis or knights Or any other goodly wightis, Solitar walkand your allone Seeing no thing but stok and stone, Out of your powerfull Purgatory To bring you to the bliss of glory Of Edinburgh the merry toun, We sall begin ane cairfull soun, And Dirige devout and meik The Lord of bliss doing besiek You to delyvre out of your noy And bring you soon to Edinburgh joy, For to be merry among us, And so the Dirige begynis thus."