Old-timey Scottish poets

I don't know why I'm reading these old Scots.
Henryson, Dunbar, Douglas, what's-his-kilt,
Bellenden, Lindsay, and Montgomerie.
Ah, yes, now I remember. It's because

"These poems are about confusion and vulgarity, not confused and vulgar poems."

"In 1530 came the Testament and Complaynt of Popyngo, an account in rhyme royal of the death and last words of the king's parrot."

Not least, of course, because the poems enjoy

". . . a happy mean between the severity of Pope and the rambling of Keats."

But, most, because in fifteen-three, Will Dunbar
Became the first of many to print "fuck":

"His bony beird wes kemmit and croppit,
Bot all with cale it wes bedroppit,
And he wes townysche, peirt, and gukit,
He clappit fast, he kist and chukkit,
As with the glaikis he wer ouirgane.
Yet be his feirris he wald have fukkit--
'Ye brek my hart, my bony ane.'"

Translation for the deaf or Scots-impaired:

His pretty beard was combed and clipped,
But all with broth it was besplattered,
And he was townish, bold, and foolish,
He held her hard, and kissed, and fondled,
As though with passion overwhelmed,
If he'd had his way, he would have fucked her,
"You break my heart, my darling one."