Sir David Lyndsay, unlike most satirists, was a good, a blameless, and a religious man. The occasional loftiness of his poetic vein, the breadth of his humour, the purity of his purpose, and his strong reforming zeal combined to make his poetry exceedingly popular in Scotland for a number of ages, particularly among the lower orders. Scott introduces Andrew Fairservice, in 'Rob Roy,' saying, in reference to Francis Osbaldistone's poetical efforts, 'Gude help him! twa lines o' Davie Lyndsay wad ding a' he ever clerkit,' and even still there are districts of the country where his name is a household word. MELDRUM'S DUEL WITH THE ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBART. Then clarions and trumpets blew, And warriors many hither drew; On every side came many man To behold who the battle wan. The field was in the meadow green, Where every man might well be seen: The heralds put them so in order, That no man pass'd within the border, Nor press'd to come within the green, But heralds and the champions keen; The order and the circumstance Were long to put in remembrance. When these two noble men of weir Were well accoutred in their geir, And in their handis strong burdouns,[1] Then trumpets blew and clariouns, And heralds cried high on height, 'Now let them go--God show the right.' * * * * * Then trumpets blew triumphantly, And these two champions eagerly, They spurr'd their horse with spear on breast, Pertly[2] to prove their pith they press'd. That round rink-room[3] was at utterance, But Talbart's horse with a mischance He outterit,[4] and to run was loth; Whereof Talbart was wonder wroth. The Squier forth his rink[5] he ran, Commended well with every man, And him discharged of his spear Honestly, like a man of weir. * * * * * The trenchour[6] of the Squier's spear Stuck still into Sir Talbart's geir; Then every man into that stead[7] Did all believe that he was dead. The Squier leap'd right hastily From his courser deliverly,[8] And to Sir Talbart made support, And humillie[9] did him comfort. When Talbart saw into his shield An otter in a silver field, 'This race,' said he, 'I sore may rue, For I see well my dream was true; Methought yon otter gart[10] me bleed, And bore me backward from my steed; But here I vow to God soverain, That I shall never joust again.' And sweetly to the Squier said, 'Thou know'st the cunning[11] that we made, Which of us two should tyne[12] the field, He should both horse and armour yield To him that won, wherefore I will My horse and harness give thee till.' Then said the Squier, courteously, 'Brother, I thank you heartfully; Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, For I have gotten that I would have.'