WHEN Alex Salmond appeared recently at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in conversation with historian Sir Tom Devine, mention was made of the ancient Scottish art of flyting.

Chambers defines it variously as to quarrel, brawl, "to scold, to rail at", none of which seems to catch its essence. For at its best, flyting is more violent, more rancorous than that. It is form of verbal fisticuffs, of duelling with one's opponent until he can take no more. A good example of it, perhaps, was the second televised debate between Salmond and Alistair Darling, by the end of which the latter looked as if he had suffered enough and needed to recuperate at a Swiss sanatorium.

Having said that, the greatest flyters were not politicians but poets who could use their skills with words to devastating effect. The most notable of these was William Dunbar, who was born in the 1460s and educated at the University of St Andrews, coincidentally the alma mater of the First Minister. Often described as "the Scottish Chaucer", Dunbar's linguistic dexterity was legendary. The scholar and poet, Rory Watson, has described his ornate and pungent style perfectly as "the verbal equivalent of a page from the Book of Kells". Thanks to Dunbar we can just about imagine what courtly life was like in late 15th and early 16th-century Scotland.

His forte, however, was flyting which, we are led to believe, was as popular in days of yore as rap is now. As Watson has noted: "It is a disputation in verse between poets, and a licence for inspired and absurd invective. Sheer expressive extravagance and technical ingenuity is the thing and, like a bout of professional wrestling, the contestants need not actually dislike each other before or even after the exercise."

One of Dunbar's opponents was Walter Kennedy, who was born in Ayrshire of noble stock. Alas, the pair were ill-matched and Kennedy often came off worse in their bouts. Dunbar's secret weapon was humour which, deployed appropriately, can be much more wounding than raw invective.

Flyting's golden period was perhaps the decades before and after the disastrous battle of Flodden. Other flyters worthy of mentioning were Alexander Scott (c1515-83) who, among other things, wrote vituperatively on sexual licence in the Catholic Church, and Alexander Montgomerie, of whom little is known other than that he was favoured by James VI. Montgomerie's poetic opponent, who was called Polwarth, has disappeared without trace, which may be an indication of his prowess.

Why flyting fell out of favour is hard to say. It may be that as the oral tradition gave way to print, poets directed their talent to putting down on paper what they would previously have recited. From time to time, of course, the custom has shown signs of revival but never at the pitch it was when Dunbar was heavyweight champion of Scotia. One fondly recalls the 1962 Writers' Conference when Hugh MacDiarmid, who could flyte with a mirror, dismissed Alexander Trocchi, the drug-addicted novelist, as "metropolitan scum". These days writers rarely, if ever, descend to such depths, preferring backbiting to full-frontal assaults. For good or ill, the contemporary cultural scene rarely sees spats between poets worthy of report. Who knows why. Perhaps they are nicer than their predecessors.

At the Book Festival, Salmond suggested that, come independence, it might be appropriate to reintroduce flyting. He meant it mischievously but I think he may have stumbled on an idea whose time has come again. Like haggis, neeps and tatties, flyting is uniquely Scottish and would enhance any gathering, such as a Highland games, which celebrates native culture. Alternatively, is there not an opportunity here for an enterprising book festival director? Our current makar is Liz Lochhead, who was appointed in 2011. Should she not be required to defend her title annually? Any challengers could first flyte with each other, the prize being a winner-take-all encounter with the redoubtable Ms Lochhead. Who wouldn't pay to witness that?