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e*lt c cccc-ctc t/c cc eccc.ccc c* c c e c C' c-*- c c c c PEE FACE. The Pictorial Book of Ballads is intended to supply what is conceived to be a desideratum in English literature, bv gather- ing together, in one ' local habitation,' the ballad lore in which that literature is so rich ; and thus presenting the general reader, in a compact form and at a moderate price, with that which has hitherto lain scattered through numerous and costly volumes. Nothing critical, therefore, or recondite, is to be looked for in the work, the object of which is simply to bring under the notice of those who might be considered unlikely to go in quest of it themselves, the ballad literature of their country. At a time, too, when the press teems with cheap publications, — some of them, by the way, of a character calcu- lated to excite in the warmest advocates for its liberty doubts whether that liberty is not degenerating into licentiousness, — it was hoped that those whom it is now the fashion to call ' the million,' might be seduced into purchasing a work of this kind ; and so be led gradually, and as it were involuntarily, if not indeed in spite of themselves, to exchange the garbage with which they are but too prodigally gorged, for more wholesome food. The plan of periodical publication was therefore adopted, and at a price which would put it in the power of every one; and, as seeming likely to aid in effecting the object in view, Pictorial Illustrations were employed, with a profusion and ex- cellence never before attempted in similar circumstances. The hope, however, on which this plan was founded, lias not been realized; ' the million' have too long ' battened on the moor' to be able to breathe the bracing air of the mountain; the work PREFACE. has found its patrons amongst a higher class than those for whom it was designed; and it has consequently been determined to discontinue the periodical publication, without, however, in anywise altering the character of the work, which still professes to be, and is, essentially and exclusively popular. With regard to the sources from which its materials are derived, it may be sufficient to say here, that they are invari- ably pointed out and referred to in the Introductory Notice pre- fixed to each ballad ; by reference to which it will be seen that not only Percy, Ritson, and such well known sources, have been resorted to, but some others not so accessible and familiar. For these, as far as the present volume is concerned, the Editor is principally indebted to the kindness of his friend, J. H. Dixon, Esq., an active and zealous member of the Percy Society, to whom he begs thus publicly to return his thanks for the warm interest he has ever taken in the success of the work, and the many valuable suggestions by w^hich he has improved it. CONTENTS. PAGE Chevy Chase • • . . . 1 The Nut-Browne Mayde . . . . 9 The Mermaid . . . . . 18 Robin Hood. His Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage 26 The Blind Beggar's Daughter of Bednal Green 3.3 The Lists of Naseby Wold ; or the White Armed Ladye's Oath . 41 The Children in the Wood . . . . 48 Sir Turlough ; or. The Churchyard Bride . 53 Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 59 Sir Aldingar 66 Glenfinlas ; or, Lord Ronald's Coronach 73 King Estmere 81 The Cout of Keeldar 89 Lord Soulis 97 John Gilpin 105 The Bristowe Tragedie ; or. The Dethe of S ir Charles Bawdin . 113 The Feaste of AUe Deuiles . 124 The Child of Elle . 131 Sir Caulme . . 137 The Lady of The Black Tower . . 148 Robin Hood and Little John . 156 Sir Guy, the Seeker . 161 The Heir of Linne . 170 Roprecht the Robber . . 177 Gil Morrice . 188 Robin Hood and the Beggar . 194 The Wandering Jew . 205 Hardyknutc (Part L) . . 209 /T-ii-t TT ^ • . 219 CONTENTS. PAGE The Admiral Guarino . . . . .231 Gernutus the Jew ..... 236 The Witch of File . . . . .241 Robin Hood and the Monk .... 250 The Death of Parcy Reed . . . .260 Lenora ...... 265 Adam Bel, Clym of the Cloughe, and Wyllyam of Cloudesle . 273 The Red-Cross Knight . . . .292 Valentine and Ursine • . . . . 303 Our Ladye's Girdle . . . • .314 The Felon Sow of Rokeby and the Friars of Richmond . 323 The Birth of St. George . . . .331 111 May-day . • • • .337 The Worme of Lambton . . . .342 Sir James the Rose ..... 354 Gondoline . . • • • .361 The Battle of Otterbourne . . • .370 Robin Hood and the Stranger .... 378 Sir Delaval and the Monk . . . .388 The Gay Goss-Hawk . . . . .396 The Hermit of Warkworth . . . .401 ^':!i ' 'I f1 ^ ^-^ \ - '^-. if-.-; ' ^^^ r / [There are two versions of this ballad. The older, which he calls the ' genuine antique poein, the true original song,' Kishop Percy thinks, was written not later than the time of Henry VI. ; and the more modern one, which we have adopted, as more intelligible to the general reader, ' not much later than the time of Queen Elizabeth.' When — if ever— the ' woefull hunting' befell, can only be conjectured. ' This celebrated lay,' says Mr. Hallam, ' relates a totally fic- titious event with all historical particularity, and with real names.' Perhaps, however, the ballad had, originally, some foundation in fact. It was a law of the Marches that neither party should hunt on the other's bor- ders without leave from the proprietors or their deputies. Some transgression of this law may bo commemorated in ' The Hunting a' tlic Cheviat — for such was the original title-and this ' huntmg *may have led to the battle of Otterbourne, m 13S8, the only one mentioned in history wherem a Douglas was slain fighting with a Percy. 15e this, however as it may, the ballad itself has ever been a general favourite. Sidney, ' the soul of chivalry,' never hoard the old song of Percie and Douglas, that he ^lound not his heart moved more than with the sound ol a trumpet,' atid Mr. Addison wrote an elaborate com- mentary upon it. (Spectator, 70, 74.) OD prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safetyes all; A woefull hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall. CHEVY-CHASE. To drive the deere with hound and home, Erie Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unbome The hunting of that day. The stout Erie of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summers days to take; The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and beare away. These tydings to Erie Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay: Who sent Erie Percy present word, He would prevent his sport. The English erle, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort, With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might. Who knew full well in time of neede To ayme their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deere: On Munday they began to hunt Ere daylight did appeare; And long before high noone they had An hundred fat buckes slain; Then liaving dined, the drovyers went To rouse the deere again. The bowmen mustered on the hills. Well able to endure; Their backsides all, with speciall care, That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deere to take; That with their cryes the hills and dides An eccho shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went. To view the slaughterd deere; Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised This day to meet me heere: chp:vy-chase. But if I thought he wold not come, Noe longer wold I stay. With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the erle did say: Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish speres All marching in our sight; All men of pleasant Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede: cease your sport, Erie Percy said, And take your bowes with speede: And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For never was there champion yett, In Scotland or in France, That ever did on horsebacke come. But if my hap it were, 1 durst encounter man for man. With him to break a spere. Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, That hunt so boldly heere, That, without my consent, doe chase And kill my fallow deere. The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy hee; Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, Nor show whose men wee bee : Yet will wee spend our deerest blood. Thy cheefest harts to slay. Then Douglas swore a solempne oathe, And thus in rage did say — Ere thus I will out-braved bee, One of us two shall dye : I know thee well, an erle thou art. Lord Percy, soe am I. CHEVY-CHASE. But trust me, Percy, pitye it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltlesse men, For they have done no ill. Let you and me the battel trye. And set our men aside. Accurst be he, Erie Percy sayd, By whom this is denyed. Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name. Who said, I wold not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame. That e'er my captain fought on foote, And I stood looking on. You be two erles, sayd Witherington, And I a squier alone: I'll doe the best that doe I may, "While I have power to stand: While I have power to weeld my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand. Our English archers bent their bowes, Their hearts were good and trew ; At the first flight of arrowes sent, Full fourscore Scotts they slew. Yet bides Erie Douglas on the bent. As chieftain stout and good ; As valiant captain, all unmoved, The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and tryd ; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bare down on every side. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound ; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground. And throwing strait their bowes away. They graspt their swords so bright : And now sharp blows, a heavy shower. On shields and helmets light. CHEVY-CHASE. They closed full fast on everye siJe, Noe slacknes there was found ; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground, Christ ! it was a griefe to see, And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scattered here and there. At last these two stout erles did meet, Like captaines of great might : Like lions wode, they layd on lode, And made a cruell fight. They fought untill they both did sweat, With swords of tempered Steele ; Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feele. Yeeld thee. Lord Percy, Douglas sayd ; In faith I will thee bringe Where thou shalt high advanced bee By James, our Scottish king. Thy ransome I will freely give. And thus report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see. Noe, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then, Thy proffer I doe scorne; 1 will not yeelde to any Scott That ever yett was borne. With that there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow. Which strucke Erie Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadlye blow : Who never spake more words than these— Fight on my merry men all ; For why, my life is at an end, Lord Percy sees my fall. Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke The dead man by the hand ; And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life Wold I had lost my land. CHEVY-CHASE. O Christ ! my very hart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake ; For sure a more redoubted kuight Mischance cold never take. A knight amongst the Scotts there was, Which saw Erie Douglas dye, Who streight v^ wrath did vow revenge Upon the Erie Percye : Sir Hugh Mountgomerye was he calld, Who, with a spere most bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight ; And past the English archers all, Without all dread or feare ; And through Erie Percye's body then He thrust his hatefull spere ; With such a \ ohement force and might He did his body gore, The staff went through the other side A large cloth-yard and more. So thus did both these nobles dye. Whose courage none could staine : An English archer then perceiv'd The noble erle was slaine : He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree ; An arrow of a cloth-yard long Up to the head drew hee : Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye So right the shaft he sett. The gray goose winL' that was thereon In his hart's bloode was wett. This fight did last from breake of day Till setting of the sun ; For when they rung the evening-bell, The battel scarce was done. With brave Erie Percy there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron. CHEVY-CHASE. And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Kalph Kaby there was slaine, Whose prowesse did surmount. For Witherington needs I must waile, As one in doleful dumpes ; For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumpes. And with Erie Douglas there was slaine Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld One foote wold never flee. Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, His sister's sonne was hee; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemd, Yet saved cold not bee. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Erie Douglas dye: Of twenty hundred Scottish speres, Scarce fifty-five did flye. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest were slaine in Chevy- Chase, Under the greenewood tree. Next day did many widowes come, Their husbands to bewayle; They washt their wounds in brinish teares, But all wold not prevayle. Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore, They bare with them away; They kisst them dead a thousand times, Ere they were cladd in clay. This newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scottland's king did raigne. That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaine: heavy newes, King James did say, Scottland can witnesse bee 1 have not any captaine more Of such account as hee. CHEVY-CHASE. Like tydings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy- Chase: Now God be with him, said our king, Sith it will noe better bee; I trust I have within my roalnu; Five hundred as good as hee. Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take: I'll be revenged on them all, For brave Erie Percye's sake. This vow full well the king performd After at Humbledowne; In one day fifty knights were slayne. With lordes of great renowne : And of the rest, of small account. Did many hundreds dye. Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-C'iise, Made by the Erie Percy. God save our king, and bless this land, In plentye, joye, and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. [This fine old ballad appears to have been first printed, about ^^^^''^.l lu^ 15'20, in a black-letter book, entitled, ' The Customes of Lon- ^ ^./- ''i(S don, or, Arnoldes Chronicle ;' no earlier copy hiving been dis-^ r j " covered. It wag probably an old piece, even then ; or an anti- <\,^-' quary like Arnolde would hardly have inserted it among his historical Collections. Indeed it lias been suppo.sed to ha\e been written as early as the year 1400. It was revived in ' The Muses Mercury' for June, 1707; where it is said to be ' near three hundred years old.' Prior, who founded upon it his ' Henry and Emma,' printed it with his Poems, (1718,) assert- ing it to have been ' written near three hundred years since ;' and Dr. Percy included it in his ' Reliques.' ' Its sentimental beauties,' he says, ' have always recommended it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the style and e.xpression." We give it in that rust ; nothing doubt- ing that every reader will prefer it to any modern polish that could be put upon it.] Eit ryght or wrong, these men among On women do complayne ; Affyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele They love a man agayne: ^' For late a man do what he can, ■J Theyr favour to attayne, Yet, yf a newe do thera pursue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought; for from her thought He is a banyshed man. c Sl'indfatl. J If^nlmsl'g. 10 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. I say not nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womans faith is, as who sayth, All utterly decayd; But, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse In this case might be layd, That they love true and continue: Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde not depart: for in her hart She loved but hym alone. Than betwaine us late us dyscus What was all the manere Betwayne them two: we wyll also Tell all the payne and fere That she was in. Nowe I begyn, So that ye me answere; "VVlierefore, all ye, that present be, I pray you, gyve an ere. I am the knyght; I come by nyght, As secret as I can; Sajdiige, Alas! thus standeth the case, I am a banyshed man. And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll not refuse; Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe, That men have an yll use (To theyr own shame) women to blame, And causeless them accuse ; Therfore, to you I answere nowe, All women to excuse, — Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you tell anone; For, in ray mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. It standeth so; a deed is do, Whereof grete harm shall growe; My destiny is for to dy A shameful! deth, I trowe; Or elles to flee: the one must be. None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe, as an outlawe. And take me to ray bowe. THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 11 Wherefore adue, my owne hart true! None other rede I can: For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, That changeth as the mone! My somers day in lusty May Is derked before the none. 1 hear you say, Farewell I Nay, nay, We depart not so sone. Wliy say ye so? wheder wyll ye go? Alas! what have ye done? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge yf ye were gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. I can beleve, it shall you greve. And somewhat you dystrayne : But aftyrwarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought? for to make thought. Your labour were in vayne. And thus I do, and pray yon to, As hartely as I can ; For I must to the grene wode go. Alone, a banyshed man. Now syth that ye have shewed to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so that ye wyll go, I wolle not leve behynde ; Shall never be sayd, the Not-Browne Mayde Was to her love unkynde : Make you redy, for so am I, Allthough it were anone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Yet I you rede to take good hede What men wyll thynke, and say : Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde, Tliat ye be gone away, 12 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Your wanton wyll for to fulfyll, In grene wode you to play ; And that ye myght from your delyght No longer make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for me Be called an yll woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name : For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love It is devoyd of shame ; In your dystresse, and hevynesse, To part with you, the same : ' And sure all tho, that do not so, True lovers are they none; For in my mynde, of all mankynde, I love but you alone. I counceyle you, remember howe It is no mayden's lawe Nothynge to dout, but to renne out To wode with an outlawe ; For ye must there in your hand bere A bowe, redy to drawe ; And as a thefe, thus must you lyve, Ever in drede and awe. Whereby to you grete harme myght growe Yet had I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. I thynke not nay, but as ye say, It is no mayden's lore : But love may make me for your sake. As I have sayd before, To come on fote, to hunt and shote To get us mete in store ; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more : From which to part it maketh my hart As cold as ony stone ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 13 For an outlawe this is the lawe, That men hym take and bynde ; Without pyte, hanged to be, And waver with the wynde. If I had nede, (as God forbede !) What rescous coud ye fynde ? Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wolde draw behynde : And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle than : Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be But feble for to fyght ; No womanhede it is indede To be bolde as a knyght : Yet, in such fere, yf that ye were With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande. To greve them as I myght. And you to save; as women have From deth many one : For in my mynde, of aU mankynde I love but you alone. Yet take good hede, for ever I drede That ye coude not sustayne The thornie wayes, the depe valeies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne. Tlie colde, the hete; for dry or wete, We must lodge on the playne; And us above, none other rofe But a brake bush or twayne : Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve. And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grenewode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Syth I have here been partynere. With you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your wo Endure, as reson is. Yet I am sure of one plesure. And, shortely, it is this; That, where yc be, me seemeth, pard(5, I colde not fare amysse. 14 THE NUT-BROWNE BIAYDE. Without more speche, I you beseche That we were sone agone, For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, When ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for to gete, Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne, No shetes clene, to lye betwene. Made of threde and twyne; None other house but leves and bowes, To cover your hed and myne. Oh myne harte swete, this evyll dyete, Sholde make you pale and wan ; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man. Among the wylde dere, such an archere. As men say that ye be, Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente. And water clere of the ryvere, Shall be full swete to me. With which in hele, I shall ryght wele Endure, as ye shall see; And, or we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankjmde I love but you alone. Lo yet, before, ye must do more, Yf ye wyll go with me; As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtle by the kne; With bowe in hande, for to withstande Your enemyes, yf nede be ; And this same nyght, before day-lyght. To wode-warde wyll I fle. Yf that ye wyll all this fulfiU, Doit short ely as ye can: Els wyll I to the grene wode go. Alone, a banyshed man. I shall as nowe do more for you Than longeth to womanhede. To shorte my here, a bow to bere, To shote in tyme of nede. THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 15 O, my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede; But nowe adue! I must ensue "Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye: Now let us fle; The day cometh fast upon: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go. And I shall tell ye why: ; Your appetyght is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy: For lyke as ye have sayed to me. In lyke wyse, hardely, Y''e wolde answere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is sayd of old, Sone hot, sone colde ; And so is a woman ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man. Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me ; For oft ye prayed and longe assayed, Or I you loved, parde : And though that I, of auncestry, A baron's daughter be. Yet have you proved howe I you loved, A squyer of low degre ; And ever shall, whatso befall ; To dye therfore an one ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. A baron's chylde to be begylde, It were a cursed dede ! To be felawe with an outlawe Almighty God forbede ! Yt beter were, the poor squy&re Alone to forest yede. Than ye sholde say, another day. That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betrayd : Wherefore, good mayd, The best rede that I can. Is, that I to the grene wode go. Alone, a banyshed man. 16 THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd ; But, yf ye go, and leve me so, Than have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, howe that ye dele ; For yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde to leve behynde Your love, the Not-Browne Mayd, Trust me truly, that I shall dye Sone after ye be gone ; For, in my mynde, of aU mankynde I love but you alone. Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; For in the forest nowe I have purvayed me of a mayd, Whom I love more than you ; Another fayrere than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe, And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe With other, as I trowe : It were myne cse to lyve in pese ; So wyll I, yf I can ; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, AJone, a banyshed man. Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour. All this may nought remove my thought, But that I wyll be your. And she shall fynde me soft and kynde And courteys every hour; Glad to fulfyll aU that she wyll Commaunde me to my power. For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, Of them I wolde be one; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Myne own dere love, I see the prove That ye be kynde and true; Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe. The best that ever I knewe. Be merry and glad; be no more sad; The case is chaunged newe; For it wei*e ruthe, that, for your truthe. Ye sholde have cause to rewe. THE NUT-BROWNE MAYDE. 17 Be not dismayed ; whatever I sayd To you, when I began ; I wyll not to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed man. These tydings be more gladd to me, Than to be made a quene, Yf I were sure they sholde endure : But it is often sene. When men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordes on the splene. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I wene : Than were the case worse than it was, And I more wo-begone : For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. Ye shall not nede further to drede : I wyll not disparage You (God defend !) syth ye descend Of so grete a lynage. Now undyrstande ; to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyU you brynge ; and with a rynge, By way of maryage I wyll you take, and lady make, As shortely as I can : Thus have you won an erlys son. And not a banyshed man. Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde and stable : Late never man reprove them than. Or call them variable ; But, rather, pray God, that we may To them be comfortable ; Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth, Yf they be charytable. For syth men wolde that women sholde Be meke to them eacli one ; ^^^^ JMoche more ought they to God obey, ^ And serve but hym alone. M JBnt^m^d^o [Tins liallad, written by Dr. Leyden, was first puh- lished in the ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish JJorder.' ' It is founded,' says Sir M'alter Scott, ' upon a Gaelic traditional ballad called ' Macphail of Colon- say anil the Mermaid of Corrivrekin,' a dangerous gulf, lying between the islands of Jura and Scarba. ' The Gaelic story beai-s, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried off by a mermaid while passing the gulf above-mentioned ; that they resided together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she bore him five cliildren ; but finally, he tired of her society, and having prevailed upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land.' The reader may find more about mermaids in the ' Tclliamed' of M. Maillet ; in Pontoppidan's 'Natural History of Norway"; and in an old work, the * Kong's Shuggsio, or Koyal Mirror,' written, it is believed, about 1170. Some very remarkable stories are also told of them in WalJron's ' History of the Isle of Man.'] N Jura's heath how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee I IIow softly mourns tlu- writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea ! THE MERMAID. 19 But softer floating o'er the deep, The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsaj. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As, parting gay from Ci-inan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay ; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. And ' raise,' he cried, ' tlie song of love. The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove. We left afar the lonely isle ! " When on this ring of ruby red Shall die," she said, " the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead, Or proves to thee and love untrue." ' Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And, echoing far o'er Cri nan's shore. Resounds the song of Colonsay. ' Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas, Before my love, sweet western gale! Where the wave is tinged with red. And the russet sea-leaves grow. Mariners, with prudent dread, Shun the shelving reefs below. As you pass through Jura's sound, Bend your course by Scarba's shore; Shun, O shun, the gulf profound, Where Corrivrekin's surges roar! If from that unbottomed deep, With wrinkled form and wreathed train. O'er the verge of Scarba's steep. The sea-snake heave his snowy mane. 20 THE MERMAID. Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, Sea-green sisters of the main, And, in the gulf where ocean boils, The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowed seas. Before my love, sweet western gale!' Thus, all to soothe the chieftain's woe. Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow. He seemed her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er, Impatient for the rising day. And still from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green: While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form, of pearly light. Was whiter than the downy spray. And round her bosom heaving bright Her glossy yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy crested wave, She reached amain the bounding prow. Then clasping fast the chieftain brave. She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah ! long beside thy feigned bier. The monks the prayer of death shall say; And long for thee the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downward, like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters, murmtu'ing in his ear. The murmurs sink by slow degrees; No more the waters round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas. He lies within a coral cave. THE MERMAID. 21 In dreamy mood reclines he long, Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, 'Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song Far in the crystal cavern rose; Soft as that harp's unseen controul, In morning dreams which lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul. But never reach the waking ear. As sunbeams through the tepid air, When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier green; So melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray — * Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell ? Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.' Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light to view. And joys to see the purple beam, Yet fears to find the vision true, He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly; He feared some spell had bound his feet, And hardly dared his limbs to try. * This yellow sand, this sparry cave, Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway; Canst thou the maiden of the wave Compare to her of Colonsay ?' Roused by that voice of silver sound. From the paved floor he lightly sprung. And glancing wild his eyes around Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung; No form he saw of mortal mould ; It shone like ocean's snowy foam; Her ringlets waved in living gold. Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb. Her pearly comb the siren took. And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look, As on the wondering youth she smiled. 22 THE MERMAID. Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay; — ' Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, And leave the Maid of Colonsay? Fair is the crystal hall for me, With rubies and with emeralds set; And sweet the music of the sea Shall sing, when we for love are met. How sweet to dance with gliding feet Along the level tide so green; Responsive to the cadence sweet That breathes along the moonlight scene! And soft the music of the main Rings from the motley tortoise-sheU ; While moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell. How sweet, when billows heave their head. And shake their snowy crests on high. Serene in Ocean's sapphire bed Beneath the tumbling surge to lie; To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, Where pearly di'ops of frozen dew In concave shells unconscious sleep. Or shine with lustre, silvery blue! Then all the summer sun, from far. Pour through the wave a softer ray; While diamonds, in a bower of spar. At eve shall shed a brighter day. Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale, That o'er the angry ocean sweep. Shall e'er our coral groves assail. Calm in the bosom of the deep. Through the green meads beneath the sea, Enamoured we shall fondly stray — Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me. And leave the Maid of Colonsay!' * Though bright thy locks of glistering gold, Fair maiden of the foamy main ! Thy life-blood is the water cold, While mine beats high in every vein: thp: mermaid. 23 If I, beneath thy sparry cave, Should in thy snowy arms recline, Inconstant as the restless wave, My heart would grow as cold as thine.' As cygnet down, proud swelled her breast, Her eye confessed the pearly tear: His hand she to her bosom presst, — _ * Is there no heart for rapture here? These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, Does no warm blood their currents fill; No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, To joy, to love's delirious thrill?' ' Though all the splendour of the sea Around thy faultless beauty shine, That heart, that I'iots wild and free, Can hold no sympathy with mine. These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, They swim not in the light of love: The beauteous Maid of Colonsay, Her eyes are milder than the dove ! Even now, within the lonely isle. Her eyes are dim with tears for me; And canst thou think that siren smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread. Unfolds in length her scaly train; She tossed in proud disdain her head, And lashed with webbed fin the main. 'Dwell here alone!' the Mermaid cried. ' And view far off the sea-nymphs play; The prison-wall, the azure tide, Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. Whene'er, like Ocean's scaly brood, I cleave with rapid fin the wave, Far from the daughter of the flood. Conceal thee in this coral cave. I feel my former soul return. It kindles at thy cold disdain: And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main?' 24 THE MERMAID. She fled; around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road; On the broad portal idly rave, But enter not the nymph's abode. And many a weary night weiit by, As in the lonely cave he lay; And many a sun rolled through the sky, And poured its beams on Colonsay. And oft beneath the silver moon, He heard afar the Mermaid sing; And oft to many a meting tune, The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring. And when the moon went down the sky, Still rose, in dreams, his native plain. And oft he thought his love was by. And charmed him with some tender strain : And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep. When ceased that voice of silver sound, And thought to plunge him in the deep That walled his crystal cavern round. But still the ring, of ruby red. Retained its vivid crimson hue; And each despairing accent fled, To find his gentle love so true. When seven long lonely months were gone, The Mermaid to his cavern came, No more mis-shapen from the zone; But like a maid of mortal frame. * O give to me that ruby ring, That on thy finger glances gay. And thou shalt hear the Mermaid sing The song thou love-t of Colonsay.' ' This ruby ring, of crimson grain. Shall on tliy finger glitter gay, If thou wilt bear me through the main, Again to visit Colon^y.' ' Except thou quit thy former love. Content to dwell for aye with me. Thy scorn my finny frame might move To tear thy limbs amid the sea.' THE MERMAID. 25 ' Then bear me swift along the main, The lonely isle again to see; And when I here return again, I plight my faith to dwell with thee.' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, While slow unfolds her scaly train; With gluey fangs her hands were clad; She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides, As with broad fin slie oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colon say. Proud swells her heart! she deems at last To lure him with her silver tongue. And, as the shelving rocks she past. She raised her voice and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung. To hail the Maid of Colonsay. O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell, And sadly sink remote at sea! So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. And ever as the year return.-;. The charm-bound sailors know the dp. For sadly still the Mi i maid mourr^- The lovely Chief wl Colonsi}, )i'}iiP /ivvo fALOOR, A\-D MaURIAGE. [This ballad is printed from Ritson's ' Robin Hood ;' whoi'e it is given ' from a black-letter copy in the possession of the Dulfe of Roxburgh. The full title of the original," says Ritson, ' is, ' Anew ballad of bold Uobin Hood: shew- ing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at Titbury liuU-running. Calculated for the meridian of Staffordshire, but may serve for Uerbysliirc or Kent.' * With regard to its antiquity, the editor of the ' Collection of Old Ballads,' 1723, thinks it 'one of the oldest extant on the subject." On the other liand, to Dr. Percy it ' seems of much later date tlian most of the others ; and can scarce lie older,' he says, ' than the reign of King Charles I.' (Keliques, I. cii.) For this opinion, and for ' tliinking that it is not found in the l^opys collection,' Ritson, after his manner, falls foul of the Bishop ; without, liowever, doing more tlian pointing out that ' in tlie second volume of that collection, any person disposed to the search, will find at least two copies of it, both in black letter.' Be its precise date, however, what it may, the reader will probably agree with Dr. Percy, that ' from this ballad's concluding with an e.vhortation to ' pray for the khig,' &c., it is evidently posterior to the reign of Q,ueen lilizabeth.'] O- _ IND gentlemen, will you be patient awhile? ■'*'"'' Ay, and then you shall hear anon .\ very good ballad of bold Robin Hood, And of his brave man Little John. ROBIN HOOD. In Locksly town, in merry Nottinghamshire, In merry sweet Locksly town, There bold Robin Hood he was born and was bred, Bold Robin of famous renown. The father of Robin a forrester was, And he shot in a lusty strong bow Two north-country miles and an inch at a shot, As the Pindar of Wakefield does know. For he brought Adam Bell, and Clim of the Clugh, And William of Clowdesle, To shoot with our forrester for forty mark, And the fon-ester beat them all three. His mother was neece to the Coventry knight, Which Warwickshire men call Sir Guy; For he slew the blue bore that hangs up at the gate. Or mine host of the Bull tells a lie. Her brother was Gamwel, of Great Gamwel-hall, A noble house-keeper was he, Ay, as ever broke bread in sweet Nottinghamshire, And a 'squire of famous degree. The mother of Robin said to her husband, My honey, my love, and my dear, Let Robin and I ride this morning to Gamwel, To taste of my brother's good cheer. And he said, I grant thee thy boon, gentle Joan, Take one of my horses, I pray: The sun is arising, and therefore make haste, For to-morrow is Christmas day. Then Robin Hood's father's grey gelding was brought. And saddled and bridled was he; God-wot a blue bonnet, his new suit of cloaths. And a cloak that did reach to his knee. She got on her holyday kirtle and gown, They were of a light Lincoln green ; The cloath was homespun, but for colour and make It might have beseemed our queen. And then Robin got on his basket-hilt sword. And his dagger on his tothcr side ; And said, My dear mother, let's haste to be gone, We have forty long miles to ride. 28 ROBIN HOOD. When Robin had mounted his gelding so grey, His father, without any trouble. Set her up behind him, and bad her not fear, For his gelding had oft carried double. And when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours, And drank and shook hands with them all; And then Robin gallopt, and never gave o're, Till they lighted at Gamwel-hall. And now you may think the right worshipful 'squire Was joyful his sister to see; For he kist her, and kist her, and swore a great oath, Thou art welcome, kind sister, to me. To-morrow, when mass had been said at the chappel. Six tables were covered in the hall. And in comes the 'squire and makes a short speech. It was. Neighbours, you're welcome all. But not a man here shall taste my March beer, Till a Christmas carrol he does sing. Then all clapt their hands, and they shouted and sung, Till the hall and the parlour did ring. Now mustard and brawn, roast beef and plumb pies. Were set upon every table; And noble George Gamwel said, Eat, and be merry. And drink, too, as long as you're able. When dinner was ended, his chaplain said grace. And, Be merry, my friends, said the 'squire; It rains and it blows, but call for more ale. And lay some more wood on the fire. And now call ye Little John hither to me. For Little John is a fine lad. At gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks. As shall make you both merry and glad. When Little John came, to gambols they went, Both gentlemen, yeomen, and clown; And what do you think? Why, as true as I live, Bold Robin Hood put them all down. And now you may tliink the right worshipful 'squire Was joyful this sight for to see; For he said. Cousin Robin, thou'st go no more home, But tarry and dwell here with me. ROBIN HOOD. 29 Thou shalt have my hind when I die, and till then, Thou shalt be the staiF of my age. Then grant me my boon, dear uncle, said Robin, That Little John may be my page. And he said, Kind cousin, I grant thee thy boon ; With all my heart, so let it be. Then come hither, Little John, said Robin Hood, Come hither my page unto me. Go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow. And broad arrows one, two, or three, For when 'tis fair weather we'll into Sherwood, Some merry pastime to see. When Robin Hood came into merry Sherwood, He winded his bugle so clear; And twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold. Before Robin Hood did appear. Where are your companions all ? said Robin Hood, For still I want forty and three, Then said a bold yeoman, Lo, yonder they stand. All under the greenwood tree. As that word was spoke, Clorinda came by, The queen of the shepherds was she ; And her gown was of velvet as green as the grass, And her buskin did reach to her knee. Her gate it was graceful, her body was straight. And her countenance free from pride; A bow in her hand, and a quiver of arrows Hung dangling by her sweet side. Her eyebrows were black, ay, and so Avas her bair. And her skin was as smooth as glass ; Her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too ; Sets with Robin Hood such a lass! Said Robin Hood, Lady fair, whither away ? O whither, fair lady, away? And she made him answei'. To kill a fat buck ; For to-morrow is Titbury day. Said Robin Hood, Lady fair, wander with me A li+*' yonder green bower; There set down to I'est you, and you shall be sure, Of a brace or a leash in an hour. 30 ROBIN HOOD. And as we were going towards the -green bower, Two hundred good bucks we espy'd ; She chose out the fattest that was in the herd, And she shot him through side and side. By the faith of my body, said bold Robin Hood, I never saw woman like thee ; And com'st thou from east, or com'st thou from west, Thou need'st not beg venison of me. However, along to my bower you shall go, And taste ol" a forrester's meat ; And when we came thither we found as good cheer As any man needs for to eat. For there was hot venison, and warden pies cold. Cream clouted, and honeycombs plenty ; And the servitors they were, besides Little John, Good yeomen at least four and twenty. Clorinda said, Tell me your name, gentle sir; And he said, 'Tis bold Robin Hood: Squire Gamwel's my uncle, but all my delight Is to dwell in the merry Sherwood ; For 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife, So 'tis, sir, Clorinda reply'd. But oh! said bold Robin, how sweet would it be, If Clorinda would be my bride. She blusht at the motion ; yet, after a pause. Said, Yes, sir, and with all my heart. Then let us send for a priest, said Robin Hood, And be married before we do part. But she said, It may not be so, gentle sir. For I must be at Titbury feast; And if Robin Hood will go thither with me, I'll make him the most welcome guest. Said Robin Hood, Reach me that buck. Little John, For I'll go along with my dear; And bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks. And meet me to-morrow just here. Before he had ridden five Staffordshire miles, Eight yeomen, that were too bold. Bid Robin Hood stand, and deliver his buck: A truer tale never was told. ROBIN HOOD. 31 I will not, faith, said bold llobin; come, John, Stand by me, and we'll beat 'em all. Then both drew their swords, and so cut 'em, and slasht'em, That five out of them did fall. The three that remain'd call'd to Robin for quarter, And pitiful John begg'd their lives; When John's boon was granted, he gave them good counsel. And sent them all home to their wives. This battle was fought near to Titbury town, When the btigpipes baited the bull; I'm the king of the fiddlers, and I swear 'tis truth. And I call him that doubts it a gull : For I saw tliem fighting, and fiddled the while; And Clorinda sung, ' Hey derry down! The bumkins are beaten, put up thy sword. Bob, And now let's dance into the town.' Before we came in, we heard a great shouting. And all that were in it look'd madly; For some were on bull-back, some dancing a morris, And some singing Arthur -a-Br adley . And there we see Thomas, our justice's clerk. And Mary, to whom he was kind; For Tom rode before her, and call'd Mary madam. And kiss'd her full sweetly behind: And so may your worships. But we went to dinner. With Thomas, and IMary. and Nan; They all drank a health to Clorinda, and told hcj-. Bold Robin Hood was a fine man. When dinner was ended. Sir Roger, the parson Of Uubbridge, was sent for in haste: He brought his mass-book, and he bad them take hands, And joyn'd them in marriage full fast. And then, as bold Robin Hood and his sweet bride Went hand in hand to the green bower. The birds sung with pleasure in merry Sherwood, And 'twas a most joyful hour. And when Robin came in sight of the bower, Where are my yeomen? said he: And Little John answer'd, Lo, yonder they stiunl, All under the iireen- wood- tree. 32 ROBIN HOOD. Then a garland they brought her by two and by two, And plac'd them all on the bride's head: The music struck up, and we all fell to dance, Till the bride and bridegroom were a-bed. And what they did there must be co-unsel to me. Because they Iny long the next day; And I had haste liome, but I got a good piece Of bride-cake, and so came away. Now, out, alas! I had forgotten to tell ye, That marry 'd they were with a ring; And so will Nan Knight, or be buried a maid',:i: And now let us pray for the king; That he may have children, and they may have more. To govern and do us some good: And then I'll make ballads in Hobin Hood's bower, And sing 'em in merry Sherwood. 7^ .\ ^.wm- ^^nfi^f ^'^^¥Uf'' X 'f/^ ^/4 --z-r. ^ n]2M -£MiB4 ' '^pm [Tliis ballad is taken from Percy's ' Keliques,' where it is given ' chiefly from his Folio MS., compareil'with two ancient printed copies.' ' The concluding stanzas, however, which con- tain the old beggar's discovery of himself,' were substituted by the Doctor, apparently from his own pen, for ' those of the vulgar ballad,' to remove the 'absurdities and inconsistencies' of these latter, and to reconcile tlie story to 'probability and true history. Fortliis,'hc says, ' informs us that at the decisive battle of Evesham, fought August 4, 12G.'), when Simon de Montfort, the gi'eat Earl of T eicestor, was slain at the head of the barons, his eldest son, llu:iry, fell by his side, and in con- sequence of that defeat, his whole family sunk for ever.' With regard to the date of the ballad. Dr. Percy thinks it was written in the reign of Queen Klizabcth, 'from the arms of England being called the ' Quecnes Arivies," and from its tune being quoted in other old pieces written in lier time.' In the IJritish Museum are two copies, one in black-letter, bearing the fol- lowing title: — ' The Rarest Uallad tliat ever was seen Of the Blind Boggers Daughter of Bednal (ircen.' In both these cniics the arms of lOngland are called tlie ' King's Arms.' The ' A'lgeir was a go! 1 coin, of the value of about ten shillings.] FITT FIRST. TT was a blind befigar,hacl long lost his sight, Tie had a iaire daugliter of bcwty most bright: And many a gallant brave suiter had shee, For none was see comelye as pretty Bessee. F 34 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER And thougli shee was of favour most faire, Yett seeing shee was but a poor beggar's heyre, Of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, Whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye Bessee. Wherefore in great sorrow faire Bessy did say, Good father and mother let me goe away To seek out my fortune, whatever itt bee. This suite then they granted to prettye Bessee. Then Bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright. All cladd in gray russett, and late in the night. From father and mother alone parted shee. Who sighed and sobbed for prettye Bessee. Shee went till shee came to Stratford-le-Bow; Then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goc: With teares shee lamented her hard destinie, Soe sadd and soe heavy was pretty Bessee. Shee kept on her journey untill it Avas day. And went unto Rumford along the hye way; Where at the Queene's Amies entertained was shee: Soe faire and wel favoured was pretty Bessee. Shee had not been there a month to an end, But master and niistres and all was her friend: And every brave gallant that once did her see. Was straightway cnamourd of pretty Bessee. Great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, And in their songs daylye her love was extold; Her beawtye was blazed in every degree; Soe faire and soe comely e was pretty Bessee. The young men of Rumford in her had their joy; Shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; And at her commandment still wold they bee, Soe faire and soe comelye was prettye Bessee. Foure suitors att once unto her did goe; They craved her favor, but still she sayd Noc; I wold not wish gentles to marry with nice: Yett ever they honoured prettye Bessee. The first of them was a gallant young knight, And he came unto her disguisde in the night: The second a gentleman of good degree. Who wooed and sued for prettye Bessee. OF BEDNAL GREEN. 35 A merchant of London, whose wealth was not small, He was the third suiter, and proper withall: Her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, Who swore he would dye for pretty Bessee. And if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, He make thee a ladye with joy and delight; My heart's so inthralled by thy be w tie, That soone I shall dye for prettye Bessee. The gentleman sayd, Come, marry with mee, As fine as a ladye my Bessy shal bee; My life is distressed: O heare me, quoth hee; And grant me thy love, my prettye Bessee. * Let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, Thou shalt live in London both gallant and gay; My shippes shall bring home rych Jewells for thee. And I will for ever love pretty Bessee. Then Bessy shee sighed, and thus shee did say: My father and mother I meane to obey; First gett their good-will, and be faithfuU to mee, Ajid you shall enjoye your prettye Bessee. To every one, this answer shee made; Wherfore unto her they joy fullye sayd — This thing to fulfill we all doe agree; But where dwells thy father, my prettye Bessee? My father, shee said, is soone to be seene; The seely blind beggar of Bednal-Greene, That daylye sits begging for charitie, He is the good father of pretty Bessee. His markes and his tokens are know en very well; He always is led with a dogg and a bell: A seely olde man, God knoweth, is hee, Yet hee is the father of pretty Bessee ! Nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee; Nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: I lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree. And therefore, adewe, my pretty Bessee! Wliy then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, I waighe not true love by the waight of the pursse. And bewtye is bewtye in every degree; Then welcome unto me, my pretty Bessee. 36 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER With thee to thy father forthwith 1 will goe Nay soft, said his kinsmen, it must not be soe; A poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, Then take thy adevv of pretty Bessee. But soone after this, by breake of tlie day, Tlie knight had from Rumford stole Bessy away. The younge men of Rumford, as thicke might bee, Rode after to feitch againe pretty Bessee. As swifte as the winde to ryde they were seene, Untill they came neare unto Bednal-Greene; And as the knight lighted most courteouslie They all fought against him for pretty Bessee. But rescew came speedily e over the plaine. Or else the young kniglit for his love had been sluine. This fray being ended, then straitway he see His kinsmen come rayling at pretty Bessee. Then spake the blind beggar. Although I bee poore, Yett rayle not against my child at my own dooi'e; Though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, Yet will I dropp angells with you for my girle. And then if my gold may better her birthe, And equall the gold that you lay on the earth, Tiien neyther rayle nor grudge you to see The blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. But first you shall promise, and have itt wellknowne, The gold that you drop shall all be your owne. With that they replyed, Contented bee wee. Then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty Bessee. With that an angell he cast on the ground. And dropped in angels full three thousand pound; And oftentimes itt was proved most plaine. For the gentlemens one, the beggar dropt twayne: Soe that the place wherein they did sitt. With gold it was covered every whitt. The gentlemen then having dropt all their store, Sayd, Now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. Thou hast fulfilled thy promise ai'right. Then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; And heere, added hee, I will now throweyou downe A hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. OF BEDNAL GREEN. The gentlemen all, that this treasure had scene. Admired the beggar of Bednal-Greene; And all those that were her suitors before, Their fleshe for very anger they tore. Thus was faire Besse matched to the knight, And then made a ladye in others despite: A fiiirer ladye there never was seene, Than the blind beggars daughter of Bednal-Greene. But of their sumptuous marriage and feast, AVhat brave lords and knights thither were prest, The second litt shall set forth to your sight. With marvellous pleasure and wished delight. FITT SECOND. Off a blind beggars daughter most bright. That late was betrothed unto a younge knight; All the discourse thereof you did see; But now comes the wedding of pretty Bessee. Within a gorgeous palace most brave, Adorned with all the cost they cold have, This wedding was kept most sumptuouslie. And all for the creditt of pretty Bessee. All kind of dainties, and delicates sweete Were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; Partridge, and plover, and venison most free, Against the brave wedding of pretty Bessee. This marriage through England was spread by report, Soe that a great number thereto did resort Of nobles and gentles in every degree, And all for the fame of prettye Bessee. To church then went this gallant younge knight; His bride followed after, an angell most bright, With troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene, As went with sweete Bessy of Bedaal-Greene. This marryage being solempnized then. With musicke performed by the skilfullest men, The nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, Each one admiring the beautifull bryde. 38 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER Now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, To talke and to reason a number begunn; They talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, And what with his daughter he gave to the knight. Then spake the nobles, * Much marveil have wee. This jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see.' My loi'ds, quoth the bride, my father's so base. He is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. ' The prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe Before her own face, were a flattering thinge; But wee thinke thy father's baseness,' quoth they, ' Might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye.' They had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, But in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; A faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee; And now a musicyau forsooth he wold bee. He had a daintye lute under his arme. He touched the strings, which made such a charme, Saies, Please you to heare any musicke of mee. He sing you a song of pretty Bessee. With that his lute he twanged straightway. And thereon begann most sweetlye to play; • And after that lessons were playd two or three. He straynd out this song most delicatelie. • A poore beggar's daughter did dwell on a greene, Who for her fairenesse might weU be a queene; A blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, And many one called her pretty Bessee. Her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, But beggd for a penny all day with his hand ; And yett to her marriage hee gave thousands three. And still he hath somewhat for pretty Bessee. And if any one here her birth doe disdaine, Her father is ready, with might and with maine, To proove shee is come of noble degree: Therlbre never flout att prettye Bessee.' With that the lords and the companye round With harty laughter were readye to swound; Att last said the lords, Full well wee may see OF BEDNAL GREEN. 39 On this the bride all blushing did rise, The pearlie drops standing within her faire eyes; O pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee. That throughe blinde affection thus doteth on nnee. Tf this be thy father, the nobles did say, AVell may he be proud of tliis happy day; Yett by his countenance well may wee see, His birth and his fortune did never agree: And therfore, blind man, we pray thee bewray (And looke that the truth tliou to us doe say). Thy birth and thy parentage, what itt may bee, For the love that thou bearest to pretty Bessee. ' Then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one. One song more to sing, and then 1 have done; And if that itt may not winn good report. Then doe not give me a groat for my spoit. Sir Simon de Montfort my subject slial bee; Once chiefe of all the great barons was bee: Yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, Now loste and forgotten are bee and his race. When the barons in armes did King Henrye oppose, Sir Simon de Montfort their leader they chose; A leader of courage undaunted was hee, And oft-times he made their enemyes fliee. At length in the battle on Eveshame plaine, The barons were routed, and Montfort was slaino; Moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, Thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye Bessee! Along with the nobles that fell at that tyde. His ehlest son Henrye, who fought by his side. Was fellde by a blowe he receivde in the fight, A blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. Among the dead bodyes all lifelesse he laye. Till evening drewe on of the following daye, When by a young ladye discoverd was hee; And this was thy mother, my prettye Bessee A barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte To search for her father, who fell in the fight, And seeing young Montfoi-t, where gasping he laye. Was moved with pitye, and brouglit him awaye. 40 THE BLIND BEGGARS DAUGHTER. In secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, While he throughe the realme was beleevd to be shiiiic; At lengthe his I'aire bride she consented to bee, And made hira glad fatlier of prettye Bessee. And nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, We clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; Her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee; All our comfort and care was our prettye Bessee. And here have wee lived in fortunes despite, Thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: Full forty winters thus have I beene A silly blind beggar of Bednal-Greene. And here, noble lordes, is ended the song, Of one that once to your own ranke did belong: Andthus have you learned a secrette from mee That ne'er had beene knowne, but for prettye Bessee.' Now when the faire companye everye one, Had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne. They all were amazed, as well they might bee, Both at the blinde beggar and pretty Bessee. With that the faire bride they all did embrace, Saying, Sure thou art come of an honoui'able race; Thy father likewise is of npble degree, And thou art well worthy a lady to bee. Thus was the feast ended witli joye and delighte; A bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte; In joy and felicitie long lived hce, All with his faire lad3e, the pretty Bessee. Ci)e Eisis of flascbi) 2SIiIoIlj : OR, HE WHITEABMED LADTF.'S OATH, A LHOEKD. [This very spirited and beautiful ballad, or — as its authoi'prefers to call it — ' legend,' is taken from ' Friendship's Offering,' for 1828, where, we believe, it originally appeared. We say ' believe,' because we are unable to affirm any- thing positively upon the subject. To whom we are indebted for this contribution to our ballad- lore ; who were Sir Carodac and ' swarthy Britomart," and who the 'White- Armed Ladye ;' in what period of the world's history they played their parts ; and what, if any, was the occasion of the lists being formed on Naseby Wold, are matters upon which the author has not thought proper to throw any more light than can be obtained from the ballad itself; to which, therefore, we must be content to refer the reader, as to the only source of information respecting them with which we are acciuainted.] INSTRELS are wending from lordly tower, Merry maidens from ladye's bower, Shaven priest, and bearded knight, k^ Courser black, and charger white. G 42 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR, Kinp; Richard mounts liis palfrey grey, And England's best are in array; For lordly blood and knighthood bold Do mortal fight on Naseby Wold. Wherefore is Carodac spear in rest? Swarthy Britomart targe on breast? Not for tilt, or tourney light, But in deep defiance of deadly fight. Horse to horse, and hand to hand, God to speed, and his own red brand: — Woe worth the day, woe worth the feud, When the fiilcon stoops for the falcon's blood ! 'Twas whisperd, somewhat of deadly wrong. Of treason foul, and slanderous tongue; — Some talkt of woman's wandering eye, Far on the shores of Paynimie. A Palmer spoke of murder's stain, — Swords red, — but not on battle i)Iain, I reck not, — 'tis as legends tell, — None know how so dark a feud befell! Certes! was seen a ladye there; — (When was feud without ladye fair?) Darkly bedight in foreign weed, And proudly borne on an Eastern steed. Maidens lip like hers ne'er smiled; INFaidens eye was ne'er so wild: — Saint Mary! yonder lip and eye Have more than earthly witchery! Jesu! 'twas an awful day, When spirits mingled with earthly clay: — Eastern lore hath sung her birth, She was no ladye of nether earth! Strange legends of her youth were told, That India's seas had o'er her rolld; That her sire was ruler in Oceans caves, O'er Genii of the pearly waves. Her mother was queen of Fairy Lands, Crystal isles, and golden sands; — And she, — the child of another sphere Loves she? — or why is she mortal here? THE WHITE-ARIVIED LADYE'S OATH. 43 Yes! Love, — in pain, in peril pi-oved; — And who can doubt, that once has loved? She has left her fathers caverns swart, ~ And crosst the wave with Sir Britomart. Queen-like, around the lists she rides; But her brow is dark as an Afric bride's; For she has tried her magic power, — But a mightier spell rules the battle-hour. Hark! peals the heralds challenge loud, — The warders are pricking through the crowd, — The clarion sounds; — with a torrents force Parts from his stance each barbed horse. The spurs were red in the coursers side, Ere the first note of battle died: A second — and in mid career Reels the steed, and cracks the spear! Sir Britomarts horse was a noble one. Matchless in blood and mighty in bone; Araby's steeds, he had beaten them all, — But he was not bred in earthly stall! There are sprites of the air, and sprites of the sea, Jesu shield us! — that such should be! — Now, ladyes all, read me my rede, Whence came he, that coal-black steed? But Carodac bore him like stubborn rock: And the Paynim barb reeld at the shock : Heaven's own hand was in the deed. Or he had not quaild to earthly steed. The girths are snapt on his panting sides. The hand has dropt from the rein that guides: Yon ashen lance, so good and so true. Has pierced Sir Britomart through and through! The clarions rung, and ladyes wept, And many a Leech has forward stept. To staunch and to talk as Leech does now; — But the sweat of death is on his brow! Li shorter gasps his breath came and went. Like the forest's groan when the storm is spent, — And ever, with a torrents flood, Gusht from his mouth the bubbling blood. 44 THE LISTS OF NASEBY WOLD; OR, The priest would pray with the dying knight, That his soul would pass, as pass it might; But better the friar at home may preach, — And he swore aloud at the trembling Leech! His lips are moving, but not in prayer. Though the blanch of death is settling there: — He is trying to name his ladye's name, — Few sounds were heard, — that ladye came. O ! Death is deadly wherever he be. On the lonely wild, or the pathless sea; . But deadlier, wilder, in field or hall When youth and strength before him fall. To die, when life is but begun, — To look your last on the blessed sun; With the charnel-worm long vigils to keep, — Or to sleep that last and awful sleep: To clasp a hand, while your tongue can say — A moment — and mine will be but clay; — To gaze on the eye that is best and dearest, And know, that Night to jovlv own is nearest! O! this is death in his deadliest mood, — Worse than battle, worse than blood; Worse than rack, when sinews start: — Such was the death of Sir Britomart ! There is a light form oer him bending, — There is a breast his pillow lending, O ! were the snow-wreath half as white, No moon would shine on an Alpine night. There is an eye that looks in his, — Glazed and haggard and dim as it is : — But the glaze and the dimness awhile can fly. When he meets the beam of his Leila's eye. So dark, so full, in its vivid glowing. No light is quencht, though tears are flowing; But her cheek is red in a crimson flood. And her bosom steept in his hearts best blood ! She weeps no more on a senseless corse: — Mount, gallant knights; to horse! to horse! Say not tis woman's wrath you fly, — No womans war is in that eye: THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. 45 Ye have dared the tiger in his den, — Ye quaild not before the Saracen, — Ye have heard the Soldans battle-cry, — Now, — hear the oath of Zatanai! That oath is one of woe and fear, — Deadly to speak, and deadly to hear; — Twas framed in murkiest realms of air, And sworn by fiends in their despair: Few lived that heard the first brief word; — The dark heath rockt before the third: — Fiendish was it, — fiendish wrought; — I must do penance for the thought ! Sir Carodac went o'er land and flood. To fight for his faith, and the holy rood; He has been six summers in Paynim land. And deadly and keen was his knightly brand. The Soldan came with his spear in rest. And challenged of England's band the best: But the Soldan fled like the fleecy rack. For England's best was Sir Carodac. He was foremost when Salem's towers were won; He was first on the walls of Ascalon: — But whether in fight, or in tourney ring, A solemn voice was whispering; — ' 0! the Christian knight of his spear may boast; He may 'scape the sea, he may 'scape the host; Pirate and Paynim — one or both — But he cannot 'scape that Ladye's oath.' The ships are ploughing the northern foam, And Carodac is welcomed home; — His foot is on his own white sand. And his face is turnd to his fathers land! Onward they prickt, his good steed and he. O'er hill and dale, right merrily; — But the sun went down the hills beneath, And the moon rose pale on a blasted heath: Onward he prickt, — but spur and rein To the weary horse are all in vain; — And he paused — for, beneath the moon-beam cold. He knew the lists of Naseby Wold ! 46 THE LISTS OF NASEBY T70LD; OR, Sir Carodac was a warrior brave: He had fought the Turk at his Saviours grave; — But hp and cheek are blanching both, When he thinks of the White-armd Ladye's oath. He heard a shriek, and a withering laugh, Like the glee of fiends, when the cup they quaff'; And the lightning fires their red forks sent, And the thunder rode in the firmament. Thrice he spurred his courser good, And thrice he signed the blessed rood: — Knighthood's heart is steeld to fear; But knighthood's heart is useless here! Beneath the lightnings flickering glare, The lists were set, and the tents were there; Rung out the trump, and pranced the horse, But each rider there was a ghastly corse. All seerad as on that fatal day When Britomart fell in the bloody fray: Names of honour and rank were there. And Queen of the lists sat a Ladye fair. But nought of earthly shape was seen, Save she alone, that Ladye Queen, Mid grim and gaunt and ghastly ones, For all around were skeletons ! And hark! upon the moaning blast, Warrior forms are careering fast. With shriek, and with shout, and with wild halloo. And well those fiendish yells he knew. The cymbal rung and the scymitar. And gong and drum of Paynim war; — He heard the Soldans battle-cry. And he manned himself right valiantly. But his gauntlet graspt at a broken brand. And his spear was withered within his hand. He would have cried, ' God for St. George!' But the accents died in his helmets gorge. Then slowly rose that Ladye bright. Sole empress of the ghastly fight, — Thrice waved her arm, and thrice she spoke, And thrice the pealing thunder broke. THE WHITE-ARMED LADYE'S OATH. 47 At the first sound came shapes of fear, Lion, and gryif, and headless deer; At the second, volumes of smoke and flame, And devilries 'twere sin to name. At the third, yawnd the dark heath wide. Six long ells from side to side! — Horse and knight have run their course, But fathoms deep are knight and horse. Deep are India's caves of jet, — Sir Carodac's barb is deeper yet ; Deep rolls the sea, but the founderd bark Is not so deep as that warrior stark. Knights have come from a far countrie, Wizards have connd their gramarye. Priests have journeyed with pyx and prayer. But few have seen that Ladye fair. Yet trembling Serfs the tale have told. Of fearful sights on Naseby Wold; Sabres gleaming, horses prancing. And banners of flame to the night air dancing! Of shadowy shapes in the cold moonlight, Of turband Turk and of Christian Knight, And of one who bears the blessed rood. On a milk-white charger, mottled with blood. Ever, ever, careers he fast. When peals a lonely trumpet blast; — He bears him well with spear in rest, But he never wins that dark hills breast. For, warder in hand, sits a Ladye there. Queen-like, throned in an ebon chair; And ere the good steed has run its course In a fathomless gulph sinks man and horse. Warders have told it on castle wall, — Minstrels have sung it in lordly hall; But priest and warrior cross them both, Or ere they name that Ladye's oath. Legends there are for midnight hour, Song and tale for ladye's bower; This may be one, or it may not be; — I would not doubt it for earldoms three. ^4'iWi3?iim dm tM ^Bimtc [The subject of this ballad was thought by Dr. Percy— who printed it in his ' Reliques, from two ancient copies, one of them in black letter, in the Pepys Collection,' — to he taken ' from an old filay, of a young child murthered in a wood by two niffins, with consent of his unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601.' This opinion, however, will pro- bably be thought inconsistent with the fact that the ballad was entered in the Stationers' books in the year l.'JOS ; and would therefore seem to have been written before the ' lamentable tragedy' upon which the Doctor considered it to have been founded. Internal evidence, too, seems strong in favour of its originality and thorough English character; whereas the scene of the play is laid in Italy. The present version is chiefly that of Percy, compared, however, with an old copy in the Hritish Museum, bearing this title : ■ The Norfolk Gentleman's Last Will and Testament, who on his death-bed committed the keeping of his two chil- dren, a boy and a girl, to his own bi-other, who did most wickedly cause them to be destroyed, that so he might possess himself and childi'en of the estate ; hut, by the just judgments of the Almighty, himself and allthathe had, was destroyed from oft" the face of the earth. To the tune of Rogero, &c. London : Printed by and for W. D., and sold by C. Boxes, at the Sun and Bible, in Gilt-Spur Street.'] OW ponder well, you parents deare, These wordes which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account In Norfolke dwelt of late, Whose wealth and riches did surmount Most men of his estate. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 49 Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, No helpe his life could save; His wife by him as sicke did' lye, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kinde, In love they lived, in love they dyed, And left two babes behinde: The one a fine and pretty boy, Not passing three yeares old; The other a girl more young than he. And made in beautyes molde. The father left his little son. As plainlye doth appeare, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred poundes a yeare. And to his little daughter Jane, Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controUd: But if the children chance to dye, Ere they to age should come. Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the wille did run. Now, brother, said the dying man. Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl, Nofriendes else have they here: To God and you I do commend My children deare this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye. You must be father and mother both, And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them, When I am dead and gone. With that bespake their mother deare, brother kinde, quoth shee. You are the man must bring my babes Towe'y.th ii)l:.inis^rie: • •; ■ ' K 50 THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. If you do keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deedes regard. With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: God bless you both, my children deare! With that the teares did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sicke couple there: The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not feare: God never prosper me nor mine. Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children deare. When you are layd in grave. The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes. And brings them straite unto his house. Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a daye. But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both awaye. He bargaind Avith two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take the children young. And slaye them in a wood: He told his wife an artful tale. He would the children send To be brought uj) in faire London, With one that was his friend. Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly. As they rode on the waye, To those that should their butchers be, An,J a translation from the Gaelic,' and first appeared in Lewis' ' Tales of Wonder,' (1801.) ' The simple tradition,' he says, ' upon which it is founded, runs thus: — While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a sdlitiirv liothy, (a hut built for the purpose of hunting,) and uiaking merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beau- tiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself par- ticularly to him, to leave the hut ; the othei- re- mained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, con- tinued to jjlay upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the tempti-ess vanished. Search- ing in the forest, he found the bones of his un- fiirtunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and (livijin x'd by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women.'] HONE a rie! O hone a x-ie! T?ic ])ride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; "We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald moj-c! L 74 GLENFINLAS; OR, O, sprung from great Macgillianore, The chief that never feard a foe, How matchless was tliy broad claymore, How deadly thine unerring bow! "Well can the Saxon widows tell How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane tree; While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee. Cheerd by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lament we swell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a chieftain came, The joys of Ronald's halls to find. And chase with him the dark-brown game That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle The Seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while. He waked his harp's harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known. Which wandering spirits slu'ink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone. Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood High converse with the dead they hold. And oft espy the fated shroud That shall the future corpse enfold. O so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den. The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scourd the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid. To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid; Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 75 Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew ; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood. Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steept heathy bank and mossy stone. The moon, half hid in silvery flakes, Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And resting on Benledi's head. Now in their hut, in social guise. Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy. And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes. As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. * What lack we here to crown our bliss, While thus the pulse of joy beats high? What but fair woman's yielding kiss, Her panting breath, and melting eye? ' To chase the deer of yonder shades. This morning left their father's pile The fairest of our mountain maids. The daughters of the proud Glengyle. * Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart. And dropt the tear, and heaved the sigh; But vain the lover's wily art. Beneath a sister's watchful eye. ' But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, While far with Mary I am flown. Of other hearts to cease her care, And find it hard to guard her own. ' Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle, Unmindful of her charge and me. Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile. 76 GLENFINLAS; OR, ' Or if she choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough, "Will good St. Oran's rule prevail, Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?' — ' Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath, Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. ' E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe. Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harp's wild wailings flow. On me the Seer's sad spirit came, ' The last dread curse of angry Heaven, With ghastly sights, and sounds of woe, To dash each glimpse of joy, was given The gift, the future ill to know. ' The bark thou sawst, yon summer morn, So gaily part from Oban's bay, My eye beheld her dasht and torn Far on the rocky Colonsay. ' The Fergus, too — thy sister's son, Thou sawst with pride the gallant's power, As, marching 'gainst the Laird of Downe, He left the skirts of huge Benmore. ' Thou only sawst their tartans wave, As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, Heardst but the pibroch, answering brave To many a target clanking round. * I heard the groans, I markt the tears, I saw the wound his bosom bore. When on the serried Saxon spears He pourd his clan's resistless roar. ' And thou who bidst me think of bliss, And bidst my heart awake to glee, And court, like thee, the wanton kiss, — That heai't, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! ' I see the death-damps chill thy brow, I hear thy warning spirit cry; The corpse-lights dance — they're gone, and now No more is given to gifted eye !' — LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 77 ' Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, Sad prophet of the evil hour ! Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, Because to-morrow's storm may loiu"? ' Or sooth or false thy words of woe, Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, Though doomd to stain the Saxon speai*. ' E'en now, to meet me in yon dell. My Mary's buskins brush the dew.' He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell. But calld his dogs, and gay withdrew. "Within an hour returnd each hound. In rusht the rousers of the deer; They howld in melancholy sound. Then closely coucht beside the Seer. No Ronald yet — though midnight came, And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame, He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears. And sudden cease their moaning howl; Close prest to Moy, they mark their fears By shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untoucht the harp began to ring. As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string. As light a footstep prest the floor. And by the watch-fire's glimmering light. Close by the Minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright. All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem, Chilld was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam. She wrung the moisture from her haii'. With maiden blush she softly said, ' gentle huntsman, hast thou seen. In deep Glenfinlas* moon-light glade, A lovely maid in vest of green: 78 GLENFINLAS; OR, ' With her a chief in Highland pride; His shoulders bear the hunter's bow; The mountain dirk adorns his side, Far on the wind his tartans flow ?' * And who art thou; and who are they?' All ghastly gazing, Moy replied; ' And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?' ' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide. Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, Our father's towei's o'erhang her side. The castle of the bold Glengyle. ' To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer. Our woodland course this morn we bore, And haply met, while wandering here. The son of great MacgiUianore. ' O aid me, then, to seek the pair, Wliom, loitering in the woods, I lost; Alone I dare not venture there, Wliere walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.' 'Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; Then, first, my own sad vow to keep. Here will I pour my midnight prayer, Which still must rise when mortals sleep.' ' first, for pity's gentle sake. Guide a lone wanderer on her way! For I must cross the haunted brake, And reach my father's towers ere day.' ' First, three times tell each Ave-bead, And thrice a Pater-noster say. Then kiss with me the holy reed. So shaU we safely wind our way.' * O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! Go, doif the bonnet from thy brow. And shroud thee in the monkish cowl. Which best befits thy sullen vow. ' Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, Thy heart was froze to love and joy. When gaily rung thy raptured lyre, To wanton Morna's melting eye.' LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 79 Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame, And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came, As fear and rage alternate rose. ' And thou ! when by the blazing oak I lay, to her and love resignd. Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, Or saild ye on the midnight wind? * Not thine a race of mortal blood, Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood, Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.' He mutterd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer; Then turnd him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair: And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind. And loud, and high, and strange, they rung. As many a magic change they find. Tall waxt the Spirit's altering form. Till to the roof her stature grew ; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear, The slender hut in fragments flew, But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale. Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise. High o'er the Minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell, And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next dropt from high a mangled arm. The fingers straind an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm. Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 80 GLENFINLAS. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Streamd the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! "Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! There never son of Albin's hills Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen ! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we — behind the chieftain's shield No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the field — And we the loud lament must swell. O hone a rie! O hone a rie! The pride of Albin's line is o'er; And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! [Stanza 1. hone a rie signifies ' Alas for the prince, or chief.' Stanza 4. The fires lighted by tlie Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, ai-e so called. It is a festival celebrated, with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales. Stanza 22. St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. Columba, and was buried in Icolnilvill. In memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her de- votions, or be buried, in the chapel, or the cemetery, called, after him, Hcilig Ouran. This is the ' rule' alluded to in the poem. Stanza .'j-t. St. Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c., in Scotland Scott.'\ lldmf @^itmig?iic [' This old romantic legend' is taken from Percy's ' Reliques,' whei-e it was piveii ' from two copies, one of them in the Editor's Folio MS., but which contained very great varia- tions.' In an old book, entitled, ' The Com- playnt of Scotland,' — ' one of the earliest pro- ductions of the Scottish Press now to be found, supposed to have been printed about l.')40' — an ancient romance is mentioned, under the title, ' How the King of Estmureland married the King's daughter of Westmureland,' which Sir Walter Scott suggested might possibly have been ' the original of the beautiful legeiul of King Estmere.' Ro this as it may, the legend itself ' bears marks,' as Bishop Percy .says, ' of great antiquity.' In his opinion ' it wouM seem to have been written while a great partof Spain was in the hands of the Saracens or Moors : whose empire there was not fully extinguished before the year 1491. The Mahometans are spoken of in v. 4'J, &c., just in tlie same terms as in all other old romances.'] EARKEN to me, gentlemen, Come and you shall lieare; He tell you of two of the boldest brethren. That ever born y-were. M 82 KING ESTMERE. The tone of them was Adler yonge, The tother was kyng Estmere; The were as bolde men in their deedes, As any were farr and neare. As they were drinking ale and wine Within kyng Estmeres halle : When will ye marry a wyfe, brother, A wyfe to gladd us all? Then bespake him kyng Estmere, And answered him hastilee: I knowe not that ladye in any lande, That is able to marry with mee. Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother, Men call her bright and sheene; If I were kynge liere in your stead, That ladye shold be queene. Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brother, Throughout merry England, Where we might find a messenger Betweene us two to sende. Sayes, You shall ryde yourselfe, brother, Ee beare you compance; Many throughe fals messengers are deceived, And I feare lest soe shold wee. Thus the renisht them to ryde Of twoe good renisht steedes, And when they came to kyng Adland s halle, Of red golde shone their weedes. And when the came to kyng Adlands halle Before the goodlye yate, Ther they found good kyng Adland Rearing himselfe theratt. Nowe Christ thee save, good kyng Adland; Nowe Christ thee save and see. Sayd, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right hartilye to mee. You have a daughter, sayd Adler yonge. Men call her bright and sheene. My brother wold marrye her to his wiife. Of Englande to be queene. KING ESTMERE. 83 Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne; And then she nicked him of naye, I feare sheele do youe the same. The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, And 'leeveth on Mahound; And pitye it were that fayre lady^ Shold marrye a heathen hound. But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere, For my love I you praye; That I may see your daughter dere Before I goe hence awaye. Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more Syth my daughter was in halle, She shall come downe once for your sake To glad my guestes alle. Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes lacede in pall. And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall; And eke as many gentle squieres, To waite upon them all. The talents of golde, were on her head sette, Hunge lowe downe to her knee; And everye rynge on her small finger, Shone of the chrystall free. Sayes, Christ you save, my deare madame; Sayes, Christ you save and see. Sayes, You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right welcome unto mee. And iff you love me, as you saye, So weU and hartilee. All that ever you are comen about Soone sped now itt may bee. Then bespake her father deare: My daughter, I saye naye; Remember well the kyng of Spayne, What he sayd yesterdaye. He wold pull downe my halles and castles, And reave me of my lyfe; 84 KING ESTMERE. And ever I feare that paynim kyng, Iff I reave him of his wyfe. Your castles and your towres, father, Are strongly e built aboutc; And therefore of that foule paynim Wee neede not stande in doubte. Plyght me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmere, By heaven and your riglite hande. That you will mariye me to your wyfe, And make me queene of your land. Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth By heaven and his righte hiind, That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe. And make her queene of his land. And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To goe to his owne countree, To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed the might bee. They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the kynge of Spayne, With kempcs many a one. But in did come the kyng of Spayne, With manye a grimme barone, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, T other daye to carrye her home. Then shee sent after kyng Estmere In all the spede might bee. That he must either returne and fighte. Or goe home and lose his ladye. One whyle then the page he went, Another whyle he ranne; Till he had oretaken king Estmere, I wis, he never blanne. Tydinges, tydinges, kyng Estmere! What tydinges nowe, my boye? O tydinges I can tell to you. That Avill you sore annoye. You had not ridden scant a myle, A myle out of the towne, KING ESTMERE. 85 But in did come the kyng of Spayne "With kempes many a one: But in did come the kyng of Spayne With manye a grimme barone, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, T other daye to carrye her home. That ladye fayre she greetes you well, And ever-more well by mee: You must either turne againe and fighte, Or goe home and lose your ladye. Sayes, Reade me, reade me, deare brother, My reade shall ryde at thee, Whiche way we best may turne and fighte. To save this fayi'e ladye. Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge, And your reade must rise at me, I quicklye will devise a waye To sette thy ladye free. My mother was a westerne woman, And learned in gramarye. And when I learned at the schole, Something shee taught itt me. There groweth an hearbe within this fielde, And iff it were but knowne, His color, which is whyte and redd, It will make blacke and browne: His color, which is browne and blacke, Itt will make redd and whyte; That sword is not in all Englande, Upon his coate will byte. And you shal be a harper, brother, Out of the north countree; And lie be your boye, so faine of fighte, To beare your harpe by your knee. And you shall be tlie best harper. That ever tooke harpe in hand; And I will be the best singer. That ever sung in this land. Itt shal be written in our forheads All and in grammarye, 86 KING ESTMERE. That we towe are the boldest men, That are in all Christentyc. And thus they renisht them to ryde, On towe good renish steedes; And whan they came to kyng Adlands hall, Of redd gold shone their weedes. And whan the came to kyng Adlands hall Untill the fayre hall yate, There they found a proud porter Rearing himselfe theratt. Sayes, Christ thee save, thou proud porter; Sayes, Chi-ist thee save and see. Nowe you be welcome, sayd the porter. Of what land soever ye bee. We been harpers, sayd Adler yonge, Come out of the northe countree; We beene come hither untUl this place. This proud weddinge for to see. Sayd, And your color were white and redd, As it is blacke and browne, Dd saye king Estmere and his brother Were comen untill this towne. Then they puUed out a ryng of gold, Layd itt on the porters arme: And ever we will thee, proud porter, Thow wilt saye us no harme. Sore he looked on kyng Estmere, And sore he handled the ryng, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates. He lett for no kind of thyng. Kyng Estmere he light off his steede Up att the fayre hall board; The frothe, that came from his brydle bitte, Light on kyng Bremors beard. Sayes, Stable thy steede, thou proud harper. Go stable him in the stalle; Itt doth not beseeme a proud harper To stable him in a kyngs halle. My ladd he is so lither, he sayd. He will do nought that's meete; KING ESTMERE. 87 And aye that I cold but find the man, Were able him to beate. Thou speakst proud words, sayd the Paynim king, Thou harper here to mee: There is a man within this halle, That will beate thy lad and thee. O lett that man come downe, he sayd, A sight of him wold I see; And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd, Then he shall beate of mee. Downe then came the kemperye man, And looked him in the eare; For all the gold, that was under heaven. He durst not neigh him neare. And how nowe, kempe, sayd the kyng of Spayne, And how what aileth thee? He sayes, Itt is written in his forhead All and in gramarye. That for all the gold that is under heaven, I dare not neigh him nye. Kyng Estraere then pulled forth his harpe, And played thereon so sweete: Upstarte the ladye from the kynge, As hee sate at the meate. Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, Now stay thy hai'pe, I say; For an thou playest as thou beginnest, Thou'lt till my bride awaye. He strucke upon his harpe agayne, And playd both fayre and free ; The ladye was so pleasde theratt, She laught loud laughters three. Nowe sell me thy harpe, sayd the kyng of Spayne, Thy harpe and stryngs eche one. And as many gold nobles thou shalt have, As there be stryngs thereon. And what wold ye doe with my harpe, he sayd, Iff I did sell it yee ? ' To playe my wiffe and me a fitt. When abed together we bee.' 88 KING ESTMERE. Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, As shee sitts laced in pall. And as many gold nobles I will give, As there be rings in the hall. And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her yee? More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye To lye by mee than thee. Hee played agayne both loud and shrille, And Adler he did syng, * O ladye, this is thy owne true love; Noe harper, but a kyng. O ladye, this is thy owne true love, As playnlye thou may est see; And lie rid thee of that foule paynim, Who partes thy love and thee.' The ladye looked, the ladye blushte. And blushte and lookt agayne, While Adler he hath drawne his brande, And hath the Sowdan slayne. Up then rose the kemperye men. And loud they gan to crye: Ah! tray tors, yee have slayne our kyng. And therefore yee shall dye. Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And swith he drew his brand; And Estmere he, and Adler yonge Right stiffe in stour can stand. And aye their swordes soe sore can byte, Throughe help of Gramarye, That soone they have slayne the kempery men, Or forst them forth to flee. Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye. And marryed her to his wyfe, And brought her home t(j merrye England With her to leade his lyfe. [In this l)anad, the reader will sec the character of the old minstrels, those succcssorsof the. bards, placed in a very respectable lij.'ht : one of them being represented mounted on a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to bear his harp after him, and to sing the poems of his comporinj? ; and mixing in the company of kings without ceremony ; no mean proof of the gi'cat antiquity of this poem. As to Estmere's riding into the hall while the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry ; and even to this day we see a relic of this custom still kept up, in the Champion's riding info Westminster Hall during the Coronation dinner.' — Perctf.] IM €m^t ^t S%I^I^lIW&1i^ [This ballad was written by Dr. Leyden, and first pub- lished in ' Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.' ' The tradition,' says Sir Walter Scott, ' on which it is founded, ilerives considerable illustration from the argument of ' Lord Soulis'— (see next ballad.) ' It is necessai-y to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but, stum- bliuR in retreating across the river, the hostile party held liim down I)elow water with their lances till he died ; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldav's Tool. His grave, of gigantic size, is still pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered ; and the popular epithet of Cout, i. c. Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northtmibrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest and Northumberland. U is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thrice irillioshhis — in a direction, that is, contrary to the course of tlie sun — ai'ound it. The Hrown Man of the Muirs is a Fairy of (he most raali.gnant order.'] HE eiry blood-hound howled l)y night, The streamers flaunted red, Till broken streaks of flaky light O'er Keeldar's mountains s})rcad. N 90 THE COUT OF KEELDAR. The lady sighed as Keeldar rose: ' Come tell me, dear love mine, Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows, Or on the banks of Tyne?' ' The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows. By Tyne the primi'ose pale; But now we ride on the Scottish side, To hunt in Liddesdale.' ' Gin you will ride on the Scottish side, Sore must thy Margaret mourn; For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's Lord, And I fear you'll ne'er return. The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; 'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint; No armour of knight, though ever so wight, Can bear its deadly dint. No danger he fears, for a charmed sword he wears, Of adderstone the hilt; No Tynedale knight had ever such might But his heart-blood was spilt,' ' In my plume is seen the holly green, With the leaves of the rowan tree; And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand, "Was formed beneath the sea. Then Margaret, dear, have thou no fear; That bodes no ill to me. Though never a knight, by mortal might. Could match his gramarye.' — Then forward bound both horse and hound, And rattle o'er the vale; As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees, Drives on the pattering hail. Behind their course the English fells In deepening blue retire; Till soon before them boldly swells The muir of dun Redswire. And when they reaeht the Redswire high, Soft beamed the rising sun; But formless shadows seemed to fly Alonor the muirland dun. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 91 And when he reacht the Redswire high, His bugle Keeldar blew; And round did float, with clamorous note, And scream, the hoarse curlew. The next blast that young Keeldar blew, The wind grew deadly still; But the sleek fern with fingery leaves, Waved wildly o'er the hiU. The third blast that young Keeldar blew, Still stood the limber fern; And a wee man, of swarthy hue. Up started by a cairn. His russet weeds were brown as heath That clothes the upland fell; And the hair of his head was frizzly red, As the purple heather bell. An urchin, clad in prickles red, Climg cowering to his arm; The hounds they howld, and backward fled, As struck by Fairy charm. * Why rises high the stag -hounds' cry, Where stag-hound ne'er should be? Why wakes that horn the silent morn, Without the leave of me?' ' Brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays. Thy name to Keeldar tell!' — ' The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays Beneath the heather-bell. 'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-beU, To live in autumn brown; And sweet to hear the laverocks swell Far, far from tower and town. But woe betide the shrilling horn, The chase's surly cheer! And ever that hunter is forlorn. Whom first at morn I hear.' Says, ' Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe, In thee we hope nor dread.' — But, ere the bugles green could blow. The wee Brown Man had fled. 92 THE COUT OF KEELDAE. And onward, onward, hound and horse, Young Keeldar's band have gone; And soon they wheel, in rapid course, Around the Keeldar Stone. Green "vervain round its base did creep, A powerful seed that bore; And oft, of yore, its channels deep. Were stained with human gore. And still, when blood drops, clotted thin, Hung the grey moss upon. The spii'it murmurs from within. And shakes the rocking stone. Around, around young Keeldar wound, And called, in scornful tone. With him to pass the barrier ground, The spirit of the Stone. The rude crag rockt; ' I come for death, I come to work thy woe!' — And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath, That murmured from below. • But onward, onward Keeldar past. Swift as the winter wind. When, hovering on the driving blast. The snow-flakes fall behind. They past the muir of berries blae, The stone cross on the lee; They reacht the green, the bonnie brae. Beneath the birchen tree. This is the bonnie brae, the green. Yet sacred to the brave. Where, still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Keeldar's grave. The lonely shepherd loves to mark The daisy springing fail", Where weeps the birch of silver bark. With long dishevelled hair. . The grave is green, and round is spread The curling lady-fern; That fatal day the mould was red. No moss was on the cairn. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 93 And next they past the chapel there; The holy ground was by, Where many a stone is sculptured fair, To mark where warriors lie. And here, beside the mountain flood, A massy castle frownd, Since first the Pictish race, in blood. The haunted pile did found. The restless stream its rocky base Assails with ceaseless din; And many a troubled spirit strays The dungeons dark witliin. Soon from the lofty tower there liied A knight across the vale; * I greet your master well,' he cried, ' From Soulis of Liddesdale. He heard your bugle's echoing call. In his green garden bower; And bids you to his festive hall Within his ancient tower.' Young Keeldar called his hunter train: — ' For doubtful cheer prepare; And, as you open force disdain, Of secret guile beware. 'Twas here, for Mangerton's brave lord A bloody feast was set. Who, weetless, at the festal board The bull's broad frontlet met. Then ever, at uncourteous feast, Keep every man his brand; And, as you mid his friends are placed, Range on the better hand. And, if the bull's ill-omened head Appear to grace the feast, Your whingers, with unerring speed. Plunge in each neighbour's breast.' — In Hermitage they sat at dine. In pomp and proud array; And oft they filled the blood-x'ed wine, While merry minstrels play. 94 THE COUT OF KEELDAR. And many a hunting song they sung, And song of game and glee; Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue, ' Of Scotland's luve and lee.' To wilder measures next they turn; ' The Black, Black Bull of Noroway!' Sudden the tapers cease to bui-n, The minstrels cease to play. Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train, Sat an enchanted man; For, cold as ice, through every vein The freezing life-blood ran. Each rigid hand the whinger wrung. Each gazed with glaring eye; But Keeldar from the table sprung, Unhai"med by Gramarye. He burst the doors; the roofs resound; "With yells the castle rung; Before him, with a sudden bound. His favoxirite blood-hound sprung. Ere he could pass, the door was barred; And, grating harsh from under, With creaking, jai'ring noise, was heard A sound like distant thunder. The iron clash, the grinding sound, Announce the dire sword-miU; The piteous bowlings of the hound The dreadful dungeon fill. With breath drawn in, the murderous crew Stood listening to the yell; And greater still their wonder grew, As on their ear it fell. They listened for a human shriek Amidst the jarring sound; They only heard in echoes weak The murmurs of the hound. The death-bell rung, and wide were flung The castle gates amain; While hurry out the armed rout, And marshal on the plain. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. 95 Ah! ne'er before in Border feud Was seen so dire a fray! Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed A red corse-paven way. His helmet, formed of mermaid sand, No lethal brand could dint; No other arms could e'er withstand The axe of earth-fast flint. In Keeldar's plume the holly green And rowan leaves nod on, And vain Lord Soulis' sword was seen, Though the hilt was adderstone. Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose, By Souhs of Liddesdale; — ' In vain,' he said, ' a thousand blows Assail the charmed mail; In vain by land your arrows glide, In vain your falchions gleam — No spell can stay the living tide. Or charm the rushing stream.' And now young Keeldar reacht the stream, Above the foamy lin; The Border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in. The holly floated to the side, And the leaf of the rowan pale. Alas! no spell could charm the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Gout o' Keeldar's course Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse. And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green. Without the holy ground. Between two old gi'ay stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train. Within yon castle's wall, In deadly sleep must aye remain. Till the ruined towers down fall. 96 THE COUT OF KEELDAR. Each in his hunter's garb arrayed, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid, That ne'er shall wake the morn. [Stanza 1 . ' Streamers'— northern lights. St. •'). ' Earth-fast flint' — an insulated stone inclosed in a bed of earth. Its blow is reckoned uncommonly severe. St. f). ' Adderstone' — a name applied to celt.« and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders. Among the Scottish pea- santry it is held in high veneration. St. 7. The ' Rowan tree,' or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. St. IG. ' Urchin'— hedge-hog. St. 21. The ' rocking stone,' commonly held a Dniidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people, who suppose it to be inhabited by spirits. St. .33. Castles remarkable for size, strength, and antiijuitj', are by the conunon people commonly attributed to the I'icts, or Pechs, who arc not supposed to have trusted solely to tlieir skill in masonry in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. St. 40. To present a bidl's head t)cfore a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17, that ' efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the buUis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death.' St. 42. The most ancient Scottish song known is here alluded to, and is given by Win- toun, in his ' Chronykil,' vol. i. p. 401 : that alluded to in the following verse is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed, ' The Black Bull of Noroway.' It is pro- bably the same with the romance of the ' Three Futtit Dog of Noroway,' mentioned in the ' Complaynt of Scotland.' St. .'iG. That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Hums' admirable tale of ' Tarn o' Shanter.' —Scott.'i Em'^ ii -"Vlj •• (This ballad, like the preceding, was written by Dr. Leyden, and first published in 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Rordor.' The hero, according to Sir Walter Scott, was William, Lord Soiilis, a powerful baron, descended from Alexander II. Local tradition represents bini 'as a cruel tyrant and sorcerer ; constantly employed in oppressing: his vassals, harassing; his neighbours, and fortifying his castle of Hermitase against the King of Scotland, for which purpose he employed all means, human and infernal ; invoking the tiends, by his incantations, and fo'ving his vassals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. Tradition proceeds to relate, that the Scottish king, irritated by reiterated complaints, peevishly exclaimed to the p'eti- tioners, ' Boil him, if yon please, but let me hear no more of him.' Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with the utmost haste to execute the commission ; which they accomplished, by boiling him alive on the Ninc-stane Rig, in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at SUclf- hill, a hamlet betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage. Messengers, it is said, were immediately despatched by the king, to prevent the efTects of such a hasty declariition, but they only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the ceremony. The Nine-stane Kig is a declivity about one mile in breadth, and foiu' in length, descending ujion the Water of llcrmifage from the range of hills wbich separate Liddesdalo and Tcviotilale. It derives its name from one of those circles of large stones, which arc termed Druidical, nine of which remained till a late period. Five of these stones arc still visible, and two are particularly p(iinte i iDlJam €)iil[^dmc J [' The Diverting History of Jolin Gilpin, show- ing how lie went farther than he intended, and came safe home again,' was written, as probahly every reader knows, by William Cowper. Tha story was related to him by Lady Austen, who had heard it in her childhood, and made so vivid an impression upon the poet, that tlie next morning he told her the ludicrous incident had kept him awake with laughter during the night, and that ho had converted it into a ballad. It first appeared, anonymously. In the ' I'ublic Advertiser,' 1782 ; and, with the help of the public recitations given of it by Henderson tho comedian, with all the humour liis comic powers could throw into It, speedily obtainod, and has ever since enjoyed, unrivalU'robably Sir Baldewyn Fulford, Knt., a zealous Lancastrian, who was executed at Bristol in the latter end of 1461, the first year of Edward the Fourth.] HE featherd songster chaunticleer Han wounde hys bugle-horne, And tolde the earlie villager The oommynge of the morne. 114 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes Of lyghte eclypse the greie, And herde the raven's croakynge throte Proclayme the fated dale. * Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, ' for by the Godde That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, To-daie shall surelie die.' Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale Hys knyghts dydd onne hymm waite; ' Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie Hee leaves thys mortall state.' Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe harte brymmfulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the castle-gate, And to Syr Charles dydd goe. But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, And eke hys lovynge wyfe, Wyth brinie tears dydd wett the floore, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. ' O goode Syr Charles!' sayd Canterlone, ' Badde tydings I doe brynge.' ' Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr Charles; ' Whatte says thie traytor kynge?' ' I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne Does fromrae the welkin flye, Hee hathe uponne hys honnour sworn, Thatt thou shalt surelie die.' * "Wee aU must die,' quod brave Syr Charles ; ' Of thatte I'm not affearde; Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? Thanke Jesu, I'm prepard: Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, I'de sooner die to-daie, Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, The' I shoulde lyve for aie.' Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out. To tell the maior straite. To gett all thynges ynne reddyness For goode Syr Charles's fate. THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 115 Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee; ' I'm come,' quod hee, ' unto your grace, To move your clemeucye.' ' Thenne,' quod the king, ' youre tale speke out, You have been much oure friend; Whatever youre request may bee, Wee wylle to ytte attende.' ' My nobile leige! alle my request Ys for a nobile knyghte, Who, tho' mayhap hee has donne wrong, Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte. Hee has a spouse and children twaine; Alle rewynd are for aie, Yf thatt you are resolvd to lett Charles Bawdin die to-daie.' ' Speke nott of such a traytour vile,' The kynge ynne furie sayd; ' Before the evening starre doth sheens, Bawdin shaU loose hys hedde. Justice does loudlie for hym call, And hee shalle have hys meede; Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else Att present doe you neede?' * My nobile leige !' goode Canynge sayde, ' Leave justice to our Godde, And laye the yronne rule asyde; Be thyne the olyve rodde. Was Godde to searche our hertes and reines, The best were synners grete; Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, Ynne alle thys mortall state. Lette mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 'T'wylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; From race to race thy familie Alle sov'reigns shall endure: But yffe withe bloode and slaughter thou Beginne thy infante reigne, Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows WyUe never long remayne.' 116 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, ' Canynge, awaie! Thys traytour vile Has scorn'd my power and mee; Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne Intreate my clemencye?' ' Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave Wylle val'rous actions prize; Respect a brave and nobile mynde Altho' ynne enemies.' ' Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n, Thatte dydd mee being gyve, I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade, Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve! Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste!' Thenne Canynge droppt a brinie teare, And from the presence paste. Wyth herte brymfuUe of gnawyng grief, Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, And satt hymm downe uponne a stooie, And teares beganne to flowe. * "Wee alle must die,' quod brave Sjt Charles; Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate. Of alle wee mortall menne. Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul Runns overr att thyne eye; Is ytte for my most welcome doome, Thatt thou doste child-lyke crye?' Quod godlie Canynge, * I doe weepe, Tliatt thou soe soone must dye, And leave thy sonnes and helpless Avyfe; 'Tys thys that wettes myne eye.' ' Thenne drie the teares that out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytor kynge. Whan through the tyrant's welcom means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 117 Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee; Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee? Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode. Whan thousands dy'd arounde; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde: Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte That cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my herte, And close myne eyes for aie? And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dysmay'd? Ne! fromme my herte flie childishe feere; Bee alle the manne display 'd.' * Ah, goddelike Henrie! Godde forfende, And guarde thee a»d thie sonne, YiF'tis hys wylle; but yfF'tis nott, Why, thenne hys wyUe bee donne.' ' My honest friende, my faulte has beene To serve Godde and mye prynce; And thatt I no tyme-server am, My dethe wylle soone convynce. Ynne London citye was I borne, Of parents of grete note; My fadre dyd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote; I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe. Where wee for ever shall bee blest, From oute the reech of woe. Hee taughte mee justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite; And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe The wronge cause fromme the ryghte: Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande To feede the hungrie-poore, Ne lette mie servants dryve awaie, The hungrie fromme my doore: 118 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, And none can say butt alle mye lyfe I have hys wordyes kept: And summ'd the actyonns of the dale Eache nyghte before I slept. I have a spouse, gee aske of her Yffldefyl'dherbedde? I have a kynge, and none can laie Blacke treason onne my hedde. Ynne Lent and onne the holie eve, Fromme fieshe I dydd refrayne; Whie should I thenne appeai'e dismay 'd To leave thys worlde of payne? Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce I shalle ne see thie dethe; Moste willynglie ynne thye juste cause Doe I resign my brethe. Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd londe ! Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, Thye brookes wyth bloude wylle flowe. . Sale, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace. And godlie Henrie's reigne, Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies For those of bloude and payne? Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne, And mangled by a hynde, I doe defye the traytor's power, Hee can ne harm my mynde: Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre. And ne ryche monument of brasse Chai'les Bawdin's name shall bear; Yette ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the servants of the Lorde Mye name shall lyve for aie. Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne I leave thys mortall lyfe: Farewelle vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe! THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 110 Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes As e'er the moneth of Maie; Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, Wyth my dere wyte to stale.' Quod Canynge, ' 'Tys a goodlie thynge, To bee prepared to die; And from thys world of peyne and greefe To Godde ynne heav'n to flie.' And nowe the bell beganne to toUe, And claryonnes to sounde; Syr Charles hee herde the horses' feete A-prauncing onne the grounde. And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. ' Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynne quiet lett mee die; Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christian soule Maye looke onne dethe as I. Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres? Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, "Wythe thee, sweete dame, to stale. 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of blysse ; Nowe, as a proofs of husbande's love Receive thys holie kysse.' Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her sale, Tremblynge these wordes spoke: ' Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! My herte ys welle nyghe broke. Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.' And nowe the officers came ynne, To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus to her dydd sale: 120 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, ' I goe to lyfe, and not to dethc, Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love. Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne, Florence! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu! Yee officers leade onne.' Thenne Florence raved as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; ' Oh stale, mie husbande, lorde, and lyfe !' Syr Charles thenne droppt a tere. ' Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud, Shee fellen onne the flore ; Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte. And march'd fromme oute the dore. Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes fuUe brave and swete; Lookes that enshone ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete. Before hym went the council-menne, Ynne scarlett robes and golde. And tassils spanglyng ynne the sunne, Muche glorious to beholde : The freers of Seincte Augustyne next Appeared to the syght, Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes. Of godlie monkysh plyght. Ynne diff'rent partes a godlie psaulme. Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyr backe syx mynstrelles came. Who tuned the strunge bataunt. Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; Eachone the bowe dydd bende. From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends, Syr Charles forr to defend. Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde. Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde. THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 121 Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe Of archers stronge and stoute, "Wythe bended bowe eachone ynne hande, Marched ynne goodlie rout. Seincte Jameses freers marched next, Eachone hys parte dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt. Then came the maior and eldermenne, Ynne clothe of scarlett deckt; And theyre attendyng menne eachone, Lyke easterne princes trickt. And after them a multitude Of citizenns dydd thronge; The wyndowes were aUe fuUe of heddes. As hee dydd passe alonge. And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse Syr Charles dydd turne and saie, ' O thou thatt savest manne fromme sinne, Washe mye soule clean thys dale.' At the grete mynsterr wyndowe sate, The kynge ynne myckle state. To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge To hys most welcom fate. Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, Thatt Edwarde, hee myghte here, The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe. And thus hys words declare : ' Thou seest nje, Edward! traytour vile! Exposed to infamie; Butt bee assured, disloyall manne, I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee. Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, Thou wearest nowe a crowne; And hast appoynted mee to dye, By power nott thyne owne. Thou thynkest I shall dye to daie; I have beene dede till nowe, And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne For aie uponne my browe; B 122 THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; OR, Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, Shalt rule thys fyckle lande, To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule 'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande; Thye power unjust, thou traytour slave! Shall falle onne thye owne liedde — ' Fromme out of hearyng of the kynge. Departed thenne the sledde. Kynge Edwardes soule rush'd to hys face, Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie, And to hys broder Gloucester Hee thus dydd speke and saie: * To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe Ne ghastlie terrors brynge; Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe; Hee's greater thanne a kynge!' * Soe lett hym die!' Duke Richard sayde; ' And maye eachone oure foes Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe, And feede the carryon crowes.' . And nowe the horses gentlie drewe Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; The axe dyd glysterr ynne the sunne, Hys pretious bloude to spylle. Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffolde goe, As uppe a gilded carre Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre. And to the people hee dydd saie: ' Beholde you see mee dye, For servynge loyally mye kynge, My kynge most rightfuUie. As long as Edwarde rules thys land, Ne quiet you wylle knowe; Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slaine, And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe. You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenne ynn advcrsitye; Lyke mee, untoe the true cause styck; And for the true cause dye.' THE DETHE OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 123 Thenne hee, wjtlie preestes, uponne hys knees, A prayer to Godde dydd make, Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe, Hys partynge soule to take. Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde, Most seemlie onne the blocke; Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once The able heddesmanne stroke: And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, And rounde the scaffolde twyne; And teares, enow to wash't awaie, Dydd flowe fromme each manne's eyne. The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre Ynto foure parties cutte; And everye parte and eke hys hedde, Uponne a pole was putte. One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, One onne the mynster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crow en dydd devours. The other onne Seincte Poules goode-gate, A dreery spectacle; Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe streete most nobile. Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate ; Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye wythe Bawdin's soule, Ynne Heav'n Godde's mercie syng! ®Ihi§ £rm^t^ i§)f Willi Diimafe „,^^tj^~. [This ' Ancient Ballad,' as it is there called, is taken from ' Legends of the Library at Lilies, by the Lord and Lady there,' London, 1>>3'2. The only information afTorded respect- ing it is as follows : — ' To such as are well read in the rare work of autobiography lately published by Sir Jonah BaiTington, so singular will the coincidence appear between the re- kition he gives of the strange fate of Mr. Joseph Kelly and Mr. Peter Alley, in ' My Hrothcr's Hunting Lodge,' and the catastrophe of the following talc, that, except for the doubtless authenticity of the first-mentioned narrative, it might almost be thought to have been founded on this ancient ballad, which bears evidence of having been written about the middle of the sixteenth centiu-y, by a person who was himself a witness of the event ho celebrates. As it is, the two stories will probably be taken as equall y true, and strongly confirmatory of each other.'] GOODLYE romaunte you shal heere, I wis, Tisycleped of AlIeDeuilesHalle, Likewyse of the Feaste of Alle Deuiles it is, And of what dyd there befalle. THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 125 For a pleasaunte thynge is this historye, And much delyte doe I In one so straunge, yett so true perdie That noe man can ytt denye. O the boarde is sette, and the guestes are mett To drinke in Alle Deuiles' Halle, The guestes are drye, but the walles are wett, And the doores are barred on alle. And why are the tables in ordere sett, And why is the wassaile spredd, And why are they mett while the walles are wett To carouse o'er the uaultes of the dedd? The Baronne of Hawkesdenne rose wyth the sunne On the daye of Alle Sayntes in the morne. A terrible feate hee had thoughte uponne, And a terrible oathe he had sworne. From holye church full manie a roode Hee had ravishede of landys fayre. And where Alle Saintes abbaye had latelye stoode Hys holde hee had builded there. For to hym our good Kynge Harrye had given For hys fee that rich Abbaye, When the Angels bequeathed for the service of Heuen Were ta'en from the Church awaye. Yett fii'mlye and well stoode the proude Chappell, Though ne monk ne preeste was there, Butt for festival nowe was hearde the bell That wont to be hearde for prayer. And those sayntelye walles of olde gray stone Dyd witnesse foul revelrye, And they shooke to heare theire echoes owne Wordes of ribaulderie. ' Now builde mee a Halle,' the Baronne sayde, ' And builde ytt both wide and high. And builde ytt mee ouer the moulderinge dedde, As they rottc. in cemeterye. For long haue I lacked a banquettinge Halle, Meete for my feeres and me; For our mirthf; the olde Chai)pell is alle too smalle, Soe our butteiye-hatch ytt shal bee. 126 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. Thys aunciente place I wyl newlye calle, And chi'istene ytt in goode wyne, Thys church of Alio Sayntes shall be Alle Deuiles' Halle, And the daye, too, Aile Deuiles and myne. On the firste of Nouembre thys lordeshippe fayre My heritage was made, From noe Sayntc dydd I craue ytt by vowe or by prayere, But I called to the Deuile for ayde. Longe, longe did I striue, and on hope I leaned, And att Courte I dyd uainlye toyle, And his Highnesse was harde tyll I uowed to the fiende A share in the Churche's spoyle. Nowe, onn thys daye beginneth a moneth of cloudes. And of deedes that mayne not bee forgiuen, When the self-sleyne dedde looke upp from theire shroudes, See no blew, and despaire of heuen. And eache yeare thys festiuall daye wee wyl keepe, Saynte nor angelle a place shal haue, Butt darke spiritts wyth us shal carouse, pottle deepe, And we'U welcome suche from the graue, there wyU wee mocke the skulles belowe. And we'll grinne more wyde than theye, And we'll synge more loude thann the owletts doe, And louder than preestes wolde praye. And our dogges wyth eache pate that is bleached and bare Shall sporte them rounde and rounde, Or tangle theire jaws in the drye dedde haire. As theye route in the hollowe grounds. Att the wildered batte wee wyl loudlye laugh. As hee flitts rounde hys mansyons olde, And the earthe worme shal learne the redde wyne to quaff. As he reeles in his slymie folde. We wyl barre oute the blessede lyghte fulle welle, And we'll heare noe lark to disturbe us, For the larke synges to heuen, butt wee to helle, Noe hymminge fooles shal curbe us. A frend in our neede is indeede a frend, And suche frend was the Deuile to mee; And thys halle I wyll builde, to thys dutyfulle ende, That my cuppe fellowe hee may bee.' THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 127 O Nouembre is neare wythe the closinge yeare, And the Halle is unfinishede quite, And what liuinge menne dyd reare in the day, ytt dyd appeai'e That dedde handes dyd undoe at night e. O the ceilinge and walles theye are rough and bare, And the guestes they are comynge novve; how shal the Baronne feaste them there, And how shal hee keepe hys vowe? Att the builders hee raued furiouslye, Nor excuse wolde hee graunte att alle; Butt, as one poore wretch low bent on hys knee, He strake oute hys braynes wyth hys malle. And, highe as he raysed his bloudie hande, Ryght fearfuUie thus spake hee: * Yff at eue thys halle unfinishede stande, Not one knave of yee liuinge shal bee!' Thenn the builders theye playstered dilligentlye. For lyfe or deth playstered theye, And, a dagger's depthe, thicke coates three Theye had spredde on the walles that daye. ' Sore feare worketh welle !' quoth the proude Baronne, As he strode to the festaU chayre. And loude laughed the guestes to looke uponne The worke so smoothe and fayre. The pine torches rounde a braue lighte dydd flynge, A redd noone through the darke nighte streaminge, And small thoughte hadd the guestes of the waynscottinge, Howe wette, and softe, and steaminge. Now theye have barred faste the doores belowe, And eke the windowes on highe ; And withoute stoode tremblinge the vassailes a rowe Att the bolde impietie. O wee tremblede to hears their reuelrie, (For I was there that nighte,) A sabbath ytt seemede of Deuilrie, And of Witches att theyre delyte. There was chauntinge thenne amayne, butt the pure and holie strayne Of sweete musicke had loste ytt's feelinge, And there was harpe and lute, but lyttel dyd ytt boote. For the daunce was butt beastlie reelinge. 128 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. And the feates were ille tolde of chiuakye olde, Amiddste dronkcnnesse and dinne, And the softe laye of loue colde noe tendernesse moue Ynu hartes of ryott and sinne. Three nightes ytt endured, and the staringe owle Was scared fi'om hys ivye throne, And the poore currs dismallie answered a howle More senselesse thanne theyre own. And dronker theye waxed, and dronker yett, And each manne dyd uainly laboure, By reason of manie speakers, to gett Meet audience from his neyboure. These wordes thenn stammerede the loude Baronne, ' May I ne'er quitt thys goode cheere, Tyll our maystere come to feaste wyth hys ovvne !' And thatt was the laste wee colde heare. The third morne rose full fayre, and the torches ruddye glare, Through, the windowes streamed noe more. And, when the smalle birde rose from hys chambere in the boughes. The festiuall shout was o'er. The smalle birde gay lye sunge,and the merry elarke uppe sprunge. And the dewe droppe spangled the spraye. And the blessede sunne, that stille shines the same on goode and ille, Smyled thatt morne onn the old Abbaye. O longe dydd we listene, in doubt and feare, Att thatt unholye doore, And, ere wee essayed to enter there, Ytt was full highe noone and more. Butt stiUc colde we gaine noe answere att alle, Though wee asked continuallye; And I that telle was the urchin smalle That was thruste through the windowe to see. O I hadde quayled in Saynte Quentin's fighte, Where I rode in that Baronne's trayne. And hadd shrunke to see the slayne att nighte, As they laye onn the bloudye playne. THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. 129 I hadde sickennede to see eache pale face bare, And eache staringe glassie eye, As the moone was dimmlye reflectede there, Farre from agreeablje. Butt ne'er hadde I seene suche a sjghte before As thatt whjche dydd thenn befalle, Of grimme and ghastlye dedd heddes a score Mortared into a walle! Theye were helde as theye dronkenlye backe dydd leane, Ynn deadlye payne and despayre, And the redd wyne was clottede theire jawes betwene, And the mortare was growne to the hayre. Full ofte haue I hearde thatt wyse menne doe saye ' Manie heddes are bettere thanne one;' Butt, 0, thanne wyth suche gaunt heddes as theye Ytt were bettere to liue wyth none. And stille the gaye fruites blushede on the boarde, As in scorne of the sadde arraye. And the sparklinge flaggons, wyth wyne halfe stored, Beamed cute to the sunne alwaye. Nowe Time hath rolled onne for three score yeare, And the olde walle standeth yett; And, deepe, in rowes, rounde thatt dred chambere, Eache darke browne skulle is sett. The ivye hath wreathede a coronett grene For the grimlye Baronne's browe; And, where once the dais carpett flaunted shene, The ranke grass waveth nowe. In the sockett where rowled eache dronlcen eye Hath the martlett builded her holde; And, aye, midde the whyte teeth, gallantlye The walle flowere twisteth ytt's folde. And, in place of the torches of pine-tree made, The pale moone quivereth o'er them me. And the scritch owle, wyth sorry e serenade, Mocketh the mynstrcll before themme. And there muste they staye, tyll the dredful daye When theire maystere claymeth hys dole! O Gentles bceware of suche doome, and praye Grammereye onne eache poore soule. 130 THE FEASTE OF ALLE DEUILES. Butt, euermore, to your dyinge hower, Remembere, whate'er bef'alle, Keepe free your liartes from the foule fiende's power, Ajid your heddes from newe mortared-walle. Thenne of AUe Deuiles' Daye thys the storye is, And of Alle Deuiles' Halle lykewyse ; A wonderous tale, yett soe trewe ytt is. That noe bodye it denyes. [Stanza 7. 'Good Kynge Hari-ye" — Henry VIII. — whom the ordinary reader may, perhaps, not at once recognise under that epithet. St. 7. ' Angels' — metallic currency, not spirits of another world. St. 9. ' Ribaulderie' — a sort of converse much in use among the soldiers of the Pays des Ribauds ; desultory troops under the command of the Duke of Burgundy in the holy wars. — Du Cangc. St. 15. ' Despaire of heuen' — ' Que faut-il faire pour di.ssiper I'ennuie ? C'est le mois de Novembre. II fait mauvais temps— temps de brouillards. Que faut-il faire pourdissiiier I'ennuie ? Les Anglois se pendent. Que faut- il faire, dis-je, pour dissiper I'ennuie ? II faut boire du ponche I — Almanach des Gourmands.''^ mM (EifedUt ®f (BIU< K^Tt [This ballad is taken from Percy's ' Reliques,' where it was ' given from a fragment in the Editor's folio IMS. ; which, though extremely defective and mutilated, ap- peared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt a completion of the story. The reader,' says I)r Percy, ' will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time he in- clined to pardon it, when he considers how diihcult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original.' Probably, however, the reader will be inclined to agree with Sir Walter Scott (' Min- strelsy of the Scottish Border') in 'ascribing its gi-eatest beauties to the poetical taste of the ingenious Editor. They are,' he says, ' in the true stylo of Cotlnc em- bellishment.' In the same work was published a ballad, entitled ' Erlinton,' which Sir Walter considered to be ' the rude original, or, perhaps, a corrupted and imperfect copy of 'The Child of EUe." It will be found m the Appendix. ' CT/M,' says Dr. Percy, 'was a title some- times given to a knight.'] N yonder hill a castle standes, With wallcs and towres bedight, And yonder lives the Child of Elle, A yonnge and comely knighte. 132 THE CHILD OF ELLE. The Child of Elle to his garden wente, And stood at his garden pale, Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmelines page Come trippinge downe the dale. The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, Y-wis he stoode not stille, And soone he mette faire Emmelines page Come climbing up the hille. Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page, Now Christe thee save and see! Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, And what may thy tydinges bee? My lady shee is all woe-begone, And the teares they falle from her eyne; And aye she laments the deadlye feude Betweene her house and thine. And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe Bedew de with many a teare, And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, Who loved thee so deare. , And here shee sends thee a ring of golde The last boone thou mayst have. And biddes thee weare it for her sake. Whan she is layde in grave. For, ah! her gentle heart is broke. And in grave soone must shee bee, Sith her father hath chose her a new new love, And forbidde her to think of thee. Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye. And within three dayes shee must him wedde, Or he vowes he wiU her slaye. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, And greet thy ladye from mee. And telle her that I her owne true love Will dye, or sette her free. Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page. And let thy fair ladye know This night will I bee at her bowre-windowe. Betide me weale or woe. THE CHILD OF ELLE. 133 The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, He neither stint ne stayd Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre, Whan kneeling downe he sayd, O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, And he greets thee well by mee; This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe. And dye or sette thee free. Nowe daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe. All save the ladye Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe: And soone shee heard her true loves voice Lowe whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my deare ladye, Tis I thy true love call. Awake, awake, my ladye deare. Come, mount this faire palfriiye: This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, He carrye thee hence awaye. Nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, Nowe nay, this may not bee; For aye sould I tint my maiden fame, If alone I should wend with thee. O ladye, thou with a knighte so true, Mayst safelye wend alone, To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, Where marriage shall make us one. ' My father he is a baron bolde. Of lynage proude and hye; And what would he saye if his daughter Awaye with a knight should fly? Ah! well I wot, he never would rest, Nor his meate should doe him no goode, Till he had slayne thee. Child of Elle, And scene thy deare hearts bloode.' ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And a little space him fro, 1 would not care for thy cruel father. Nor the worst that he could doe. 134 THE CHILD OF ELLE. ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, And once without this walle, 1 would not care for thy cruel father, Nor the worst that might befalle. Faire Emmeline sighed, faire Emmeline wept, And aye her heart was woe: At length he seizde her lilly-white hand, And downe the ladder he drewe: And thrice he claspde her to his breste, And kist her tenderlie: The teares that fell from her fair eyes, Ranne like the fountayne free. Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, And her on a faire palfraye. And slung his bugle about his necke, And roundlye they rode awaye. All this beheard her owne damselle. In her bed whereas shee ley, Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, Soe I shall have golde and fee. •Awake, awake, thou baron bolde! Awake, my noble dame! Your daughter is fledde with the Childe of Elle, To doe the deede of shame. The baron he v*'oke, the baron he rose, And called his merrye men all: ' And come thou forth. Sir John the knighte, The ladye is carried to thrall.' Fair Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, A mile forth of the towne, "When she was awai-e of her fathers men Come galloping over the downe: And foi-emost came the carlish knight. Sir John of the north countraye: * Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, Nor carry that ladye awaye. For she is come of hye lynage, And was of a ladye borne. And ill it beseems thee a false churles Sonne To carrye her hence to scorne.' THE CHILD OF ELLE. 135 Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, Nowe thou doest lye of mee; A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, Soe never did none by thee. But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, Light downe, and hold my steed, While I and this discourteous knighte Doe trye this arduous deede. But light now downe, my deare ladye, Light downe, and hold my horse; While I and this discourteous knight Doe trye our valours force. Fair Emmeline sighde, fair Emmeline wept. And aye her heart was woe. While twixt her love and the carlish knight Past many a baleful blowe. The Child of Elle hee fought soe well. As his weapone he wavde amaine. That soone he had slaine the carlish knight. And layde him upon the plaine. And nowe the baron, and all his men Full fast approached nye: Ah! what may ladye Emmeline doe? Twere now no boote to flye. Her lover he put his home to his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill, And soone he saw his owne merry men Come ryding over the hill. ' Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, I pray thee, hold thy hand. Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts. Fast knit in true loves band. Thy daughter I have dearly lovde Full long and many a day; But with such love as holy kirke Hath freely e sayd wee may. O give consent, shee may be mine. And blesse a faithfull paire: My lands and livings are not small, My house and lynage faire: 136 THE CHILD OF ELLE. My mother she was an earles daughter, And a noble knyght my sire The baron he frownde, and turnde away With mickle dole and ire. Fair Emmeline sighde, faire Emmeline wept, And did all tremblinge stand: At lengthe she sprange upon her knee. And held his lifted hand. Pardon, my lorde and father deare, This faire yong knyght and mee: Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, I never had fled from thee. Oft have you callde your Emmeline Your darling and your joye; O let not then your harsh resolves Your Emmeline destroye. The baron he stroakt his dark-brown clieeke, And turnde his heade asyde To whipe awaye the starting teare, He proudly strave to hyde. In deepe revolving thought he stoode. And musde a little space: Then raisde faire Emmeline from the grounde. With many a fond embrace. Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd, And gave her lillye hand; Here take my deare and only child. And with her half my land: Thy father once mine honour wrongde In dayes of youthful pride; Do thou the injurye repayre In fondnesse for thy bride. And as thou love her, and hold her deare. Heaven pi'osper thee and thine: And nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, My lovelye Emmeline. rstanza 40. ' From the word kirkr, this hath hcen thought to he a Scoltisli hallad ; but it must be acknowledged that the line referred to is among the additions supplied bythcKditor: besides, in the northern counties of Eng- land, k>rk is used in the common dialect for church, as well as beyond the Tweed.'— PiTcy.] [' This old romantic tale,' says Dr. Percy, from whose ' Reliques' it is taken, — ' was preserved in the Editor's Folio MS., but in so very defective and mutilated a condition, (not from any chasm in the MS., but from Ri-eat omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story.' Of the extent of the additions, by which the story was thus connected and completed by the I>r., some idea may be formed by comparing the ballad, as fiiven by him, with one published by Mr. Buchan, in his ' Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scot land. (Edinb. 1828,)' entitled ' King Malcolm and Sir C'olvin.' The similarity of names will be obvious at once ; and, although in the catastrophe the two ballads differ widely, and there is not in ' King Malcolm and Sir Colvin ' any thing at all corresponding with the second part of ' Sir C'auline ;' yet the resemblance of the latter to the former, as far as it goes, is, notwith- standing, very striking, and on the suppositidii (if their being two independent ballads, not a little rfm.irliablo. Probably, however, the old Scotch ballad [lUlilishiMl by Mr. Buchan. or some version of it, formed the ground- work of ' Sir (.'auline.' Or it may be regarded as ' some illiterate minstrel's faulty recitation' The reader who wishes to judge for himself will find the means of doing so in the Appendix.] THE FIRST PART. N Ireland, forr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kiiio;e ; And with him a yong and comlyc knightc, Men call him syr Cauline. 138 SIR CAULINE. The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, In fashyon she hath no peere ; And princely wightes that ladye wooed To be theyr wedded feere. Syr Cauline loveth her best of all. But nothing durst he saye ; Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man. But deerlye he lovde this may. Till on a daye it so beffell. Great dill to him was dight ; The maydens love removde his mynd, To care-bed went the knighte. One while he spred his armes him fro, One while he spred them nye : And aye ! but I \nnne that ladyes love. For dole now I mun dye. And whan our parish-masse was done. Our kinge was bowne to dyne : He says, Where is syr Cauline, That is wont to serve the wyne ? Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte. And fast his haudes gau w^ringe : Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye Without a good leechinge. Fetche me do^vne my daughter deere. She is a leeche fulle fine : Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread. And sei*ve him with the wyne soe red ; Lothe I were him to tine. Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes. Her maydens foUowyng nye : O well, she sayth, how doth my lord ? O sicke, thou fayr ladye. Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, Never lye soe cowardice ; For it is told in my fathers halle, You dye for love of mee. Fayre ladye, it is for vour love That all this dill I drye : For if you wold comfort me with a kisse. Then were I brought from bale to blisse. No lenger wold I lye. SIR CAULINE. 139 Sir kniglite, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire ; Alas ! and well you knowe, syr knighte, I never can be youre fere. O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, And I am not thy peere. But let me doe some deedes of armes To be your bacheleere. Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, My bacheleere to bee, (But ever and aye my heart wold rue, Giff harm shold happe to thee,) Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thome. Upon the mores brodhige ; And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte Untill the fayre mornlnge ? For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, Will examine you beforne ; And never man bare life awaye. But he did him scath and sconie. That knighte he is a foul paynim. And large of limb and bone ; And but if heaven may be thy speede. Thy life it is but gone. Nowe on the Eldridge hilles He walke. For thy sake fair ladie ; And He either bring you a ready tok^n, Or lie never more you see. The lady is gone to her own chaumb^re, Her maydens following bright : Syr Cauline lope from care-bed soone, And to the Eldridge hills is gone. For to wake there all night. Unto midnight, that the moone did rise. He walked up and downe ; Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe Over the bents soe browne : Quoth hee. If cryance come till my heart, I am fFar from any good towne. 140 SIR CAULINE. And soone he spyde on the mores so broad, A furyous wight and fell ; A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad ui a fayre kyrtell : And soe fast he called on syr Cauline, man, I rede thee flye. For, * but' if cryancc come till thy heart, 1 weene but thou mun dye. He sayth, ' No' cryance comes till my heart. Nor, in faith, I wyll not flee ; For, cause thou minged not Christ before, The less me dreadeth thee. The Eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed ; Syr Cauline bold abode : Then either shooke his trustve speare, And the timber these two children bare Soe soone in svmder slode. Then tooke they out theyr two good swordes. And layden on full faste, Till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde. They all were well-nye brast. The Eldridge kniglit was mickle of might. And stiffe in stower did stande, But syr Cauline with a ' backward' stroke. He smote off his right-hand ; That soone he with paine and lacke of bloud Fell downe on that lay-land. Then up syr Cauline lift his brande All over his head so bye : And here I sweare by the holy roode, Nowe, caytiflFe, thou shalt dye. Then up and came that ladye brighte, Faste wringing of lier handc : For the maydens love, that most you love, "Withold that deadlye brande : For the maydens love, that most you love. Now smyte no more I praye ; And aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, He shall thy bests obaye. Now sweare to moe, thou Eldridge knighte. And here on this lay-land. That thou wilt believe on Christ his laye. And thereto plight thy hand : SIR CAULINE. 141 And that thou never on Eldridge come To sporte, gamon, or playe : And that thou here give up thy amies Until thy dying daye. The Eldridge knighte gave up his amies With many a sorrowfulle sighe ; And sware to obey syr Caulines hest, Till the tynie that he shold dye. And he then up and the Eldridge knighte Sett him in his saddle anone, And the Eldridge knighte and his ladye To theyr castle are they gone. Then he tooke up the bloudy hand, That was so large of bone, And on it he fouiide five ringes of gold Of knightes that had be slone. Then he tooke up the Eldridge svrorde. As hard as any flint : And he tooke off those ringes five. As bright as fyre and brent. Home then pricked syr CauUne As light as leafe on tree : I-wys he neither stint ne blanne. Till he his ladye see. Then downe he knelt upon his knee Before that lady gay : O ladye, I have bin on the Eldridge hills : These tokens I bring away. Now welcome, welcome, syr Cauline, Thrice welcome unto mee, For now I p^ceive thou art a true knighte, Of valour bolde and free. O ladye, I am thy own true knighte. Thy bests for to obaye : And mought I hope to winnc thy love ! — No more his tongc colde say. The ladye blushed scarlette redde. And fette a gentill sighe : Alas ! syr knight, how may this bee. For my degree's soe highe ? 142 SIR CAULINE. But sith thou hast higlit, thou comely youth, To be my batchilere, He promise if thee I may not wedde, I will have none other fere. Theu shee held forthe her lilly-white hand Towards that knighte so free : He gave to it one gentill kisse, His heart was brought from bale to l)lisse, The teares sterte from his ee. But keep my comisayl, s\t Cauline, Ne let no man it knowe ; For and ever my father sholde it ken, I wot he wolde us sloe. From that daye forthe that ladye fayre Lovde syr Cauline the knighte : From that daye forthe he only joyde Wlian shee was in his sight. Yea and oftentimes they mette Within a fayre arboiire, Where they in love and sweet daliaunce Past manye a pleasaunt houre. PART THE SECOND. Eve RYE white will have its blacke. And everye sweete its sowre : This founde the ladye Christabelle In an untimely howre. For so it befelle as syr Cauline Was with that ladye faire. The kinge her father walked forthe To take the evenyng aire : And into the arboure as he went To rest his wearye feet, He found his daughter and syr Cauline There sette in daliaunce sweet. The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys, And an angrye man was hee : Nowe, traytoure, thou slialt hange or drawe, And rewe shall thy ladie. SIR CAULINE. 143 Then forthe syr Cauline he was ledde. And thromie in dungeon deepe : And the ladye into a towre so hye. There left to wayle and weepe. The queene she was syr CauUnes friend, And to the kinge sayd shee : I praye yon save syr Cavdines Hfe, And let him banisht bee. Now, dame, that traitor shall be sent Across the salt sea fonie : But here I will make thee a band, If ever he come within this land, A foule deathe is his doome. All woe-begone was that gentil knight To parte from his ladye ; And many a time he sighed sore. And caste a wistfulle eye : Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte, Farre lever had I dye. Fair Christabelle, that ladye bright, Was had forthe of the towre ; But ever shee droopeth in her minde. As nipt by an ungentle vidnde Doth some faire lillye flowre. And ever shee doth lament and weepe To tint her lover soe : Syr Cauline, thou little think' st on mee. But I will still be true. Manye a kinge, and manye a duke, And lords of high degree. Did sue to that fayre ladye of love ; But never shee wolde them nee. When manye a daye was past and gone, Ne comforte she colde findo. The kynge proclaimed a tourncament. To cheerc his daughters mind : And there came lords, and there came knights. Fro manye a farre countrye, To break a spore for thoyr ladyes love Before tliat faire ladvc. 144 SIR CAULINE. And many a ladye there was sette In purple and in palle : But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone Was the fayrest of them all. Then manye a knighte was mickle of might Before his ladye gave ; But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, He wan the prize eche daye. His acton it was all of blacke, His hewberke, and his sheelde, Ne noe man wist whence he did come, Ne noe man knewe where he did gone. When they came out the feelde. And now three days were prestlye past In feates of chivalr^-e, When lo upon the fourth mornhige A sorrowfuUe sight they see. A hug\-e giaunt stiflFe ai)d starke, All foule of limbe and lore ; Two goggling even like fire farden, A mouthe from eare to eare. Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, That waited on his knee, And at his backe five heads he bare, All wan and pale of blee. Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe. Behold that bend Soldain ! Behold these heads I beare with me ! They are kings which he hath slain. The Eldridge knight is his own cousine, ^\^lom a knight of thine hath shent : And hee is come to avenge his wrong. And to thee, all thy knightes amcmg. Defiance here hath sent. But yctte he will appease his WTath Thy daughters love to winne : And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd. Thy halls and towers must brenne. Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee ; . Or else thy daughter deere ; Or else within these lists soe broad Thou must finde him a peere. SIR CAULINE. 145 The king he turned hun round aljoute, And in his heart was woe : Is there never a knighte of my romid table, This matter will undergoe '! Is there never a knighte amongst yee all Will fight for my daughter and mec ? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan. Right fair his meede shall bee. For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And of my crowne be heyre ; And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere. But every knighte of his round table Did stand both still and pale ; For whenever they lookt on the grim soldkii. It made their hearts to quail. All woe-begone was that fayre ladye, When she sawe no helpe was nye : She cast her thought on her owne true-love. And the teares gusht from her eye. Up then sterte the stranger knighte, Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd : He fight for thee with this grimme soldan, Thoughe he be unmacklye made. And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende Thoughe he be stiif in stowre. Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde, The kinge he cryde, with speede : Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte ; My daughter is thy meede. The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, Awaye, awaye : I sweare, as I am the bend soldan, Thou lettest me here all daye. Then forthe the stranger knight he came In his blacke armoure dight : The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, " That this were my true knighte !" u 146 SIR CAULINE. And uowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett Within the hsts soe broad ; And now vdih swordes soe sharpe of Steele, They gan to lay on load. The soldan strncke the knighte a stroke, That made him reele asyde ; Then woe-begone was that fayre ladye. And thrice she deeply sighde. The soldan struck e a second stroke, And made the blonde to flowe : All pale and wan was that ladye fayre. And thrice she wept for woe. The soldan strucke a third fell stroke, Which brought the knighte on his knee : Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, And she shriekt loud shriekings three. The knighte he leapt upon his feete. All recklesse of the pain : Quoth hee. But heaven be now my speede. Or else I shall be slaine. He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte. And spying a secrette part. He drave it into the soldan' s syde. And pierced him to the heart. Then all the people gave a shoute, WTien they sawe the soldan falle : The ladye wept, and thanked Christ, That had reskewed her from thrall. And nowe the kinge with all his barons Rose uppe from offe his seate. And downe he stepped into the listes, That curteous knighte to greete. But he for payne and lackc of blonde Was fallen into a swounde, And there all walteringe in his gore. Lay lifelesse on the groundc. Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare. Thou art a leeche of skille ; Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes, Than this good knighte sholde spille. SIR CAULINE. 147 Downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, To helpe him if she maye ; But when she did his beavere raise. It is my hfe, my lord, she sayes. And shriekte and swound awaye. Sir CauUne juste Hfte up his eyes When he hearde his ladye crye, O ladye, I am thine owne true love ; For thee I wisht to dye. Then giving her one partinge looke. He closed his eyes in death. Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde, Begane to drawe her breathe. But when she found her comelye knighte Indeed was dead and gone. She layde her pale cold cheeke to his, And thus she made her moane. O staye, my deare and onlye lord, For mee thy faithfulle feere ; 'Tis meet that I shold foUowe thee. Who hast bought my love so deare. Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune. And with a deep-fette sighe, That burst her gentle heart in twayne, Fayre Christabelle did dye. a^ !£^tf iSilF tM HH^et &l^i§t?« [This ballad was written by Mrs. Mary Robinson, — better known perhaps to some readers by the sobriquet of ' Perdita," — who was born at Bristol in what in her ' Autobiography,' she calls the ' tempestuous night ' of the ayth November, 1758; and died, after a somewhat eventful career, in the year 1800, at the comparatively early age of 42. When and where it first appeared we are unable, after a pretty diligent search, to discover. Probably, however, it was in one of the periodicals of her day. in which many of her poetical pieces were first published, with one or other of the signatures, Laura, Laura Maria, Julia, Daphne, Oberon, Echo, and Loui.sa After her death, her poems were collected and published in .3 vols. l'2mo. (London, 180(5,) edited by her daughter. This is now a very .scarce work; there is no copy of it in the British Museum; nor have we been fortunate enough to meet with one elsewhere. The present version is taken from an edition of her Poetical Works published by Jones and Co., London, 1826.] ATCH no more the twinkling stars ; Watch no more the chalky bourne ; Lady ! from the holy wars jSever will thy love return ! Cease to watch, .and cease to mourn, Thv lover never will return ! THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 149 " Watch no more the yellow moon, Peering o'er the mountain's head ; Rosy day, returning soon, Will see thy lover pale and dead ! Cease to weep, and cease to mourn, Thy lover vdll no more return ! " Lady, in the holy wars. Fighting for the Cross, he died ; Low he lies, and many scars Mark his cold and mangled side ; In his vdnding sheet he lies. Lady ! check those rending sighs. " Hark ! the hollow sounding gale Seems to sweep in murmurs by. Sinking slowly down the vale ; Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh 1 Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh ? Lady, all that live must die. " Now the stars are fading fast : Swift their brilliant course are run ; Soon shall dreary night be past : Soon shall rise the cheermg sun ! The sun vvill rise to gladden thee : Lady, lady, cheerful be." So spake a voice ! While sad and lone. Upon a lofty tower, reclined, A lady sat : the pale moon shone, And sweetly blew the summer wind ; Yet still disconsolate in mind, The lovely lady sat reclined. The lofty tower was ivy clad ; x\nd round a dreary forest rose ; The midnight bell was tolling sad — 'Twas tolling for a soul's repose ! The lady heard the gates unclose. And from her seat in terror rose. The summer moon shone bright and clear ; She saw the castle gates imclosc ; And now she saw four monks appear. Loud chainidng for a soul's re])ose. Forbear, ob, lady ! look no more — They ])ast — a livid corpse they bore. 150 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. They past, and all was silent now ; The breeze upon the forest slept ; The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow ; Again the lady sigh'd and wept : She watcht the holy fathers go Along the forest path below. And now the dawn was bright, the dew Upon the yellow heath was seen ; The clouds were of a rosy hue. The sunny lustre shone between : The lady to the chapel ran. While the slow matin prayer began. And then, once more, the fathers grey She markt em})loy'd in holy prayer : Her heart was full, she could not pray. For love and fear were masters there. Ah, lady ! thou wilt pray ere long To sleep those lonely aisles among ! And now the matin prayers were o'er ; The barefoot monks of order grey. Were thronging to the chapel door. When there the lady stopt the way : "Tell me," she cried, " whose corpse so pale. Last night ye bore along the vale?" " Oh, lady ! question us no more : No corpse did we bear down the dale !" The lady sunk upon the floor, Her quivering lip was deathly pale. The bare-foot monks now whisper' d, sad, " God grant our lady be not mad." The monks departing, one by one. The chapel gates in silence close ; When from the altar-steps of stone. The trembling lady feebly goes : While moming sheds a ruby light. The painted windows glowing bright. And now she heard a hollow sound ; It seem'd to come from graves below ; And now again she lookt around, A voice came murmuring sad and slow ; And now she heard it feebly cry, " Ladv ! all that live must die ! THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 151 ' "Watch no more from yonder tower, Watch no more the star of day ! Watch no more the dawning hour. That chases sullen night away ! Cease to watch, and cease to mourn. Thy lover will no more return !" She lookt around, and now she view'd, Clad in a doublet gold and green, A youthful knight : he frowning stood. And noble was his mournful mien ; And now he said, with heaving sigh, " Lady, all that hve must die !" She rose to quit the altar's stone. She cast a look to heaven and sigh'd. When lo ! the youthful knight was gone ; And, scowling by the lady's side. With sightless skull and bony hand, She saw a giant spectre stand ! His flowuig robe was long and clear, His ribs were white as drifted snow : The lady's heart was chill' d with fear : She rose, but scarce had power to go : The spectre grinn'd a dreadful smile. And walkt beside her down the aisle. And now he waved his rattling hand ; And now they reacht the chapel door, And there the spectre took his stand ; While, rising from the marble floor, A hollow voice was heard to cry, " Lady, all that live must die ! " Watch no more the evening star ! Watch no more the glimpse of morn ! Never from the holy war. Lady, will thy love return ! See this bloody cross ; and see His bloody scarf he sends to thee !" And now again the youthful knight Stood smiling by the lady's side ; His helmet shone with crimson light. His sword with drops of blood was dyed And now a soft and mournful song Stole the chapel aisles among. 152 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. Now from the spectre's paley cheek The flesh hegan to waste away ; The vaulted doors were heard to creak, And dark hecame the summer day ! The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he Seem'd mth their sockets still to see ! The second bell is heard to ring : Four barefoot monks of orders grey. Again their holy ser\'ice sing ; And round the chapel altar pray : The lady comited o'er and o'er. And shudder' d while she counted — four ! " Oh ! fathers, who was he, so gay. That stood beside the chapel door ? Oh ! tell me, fathers, tell me pray." The monks replied, "We fathers four, Lady, no other have we seen, Since in this holy place we've been ! " PART SECOND. Now the merry bugle horn Through the forest sounded far ; When on the lofty tower, forlorn. The lady watcht the evening star ; The evening star that seem'd to be Rising from the darken' d sea ! The summer sea was dark and still. The sky was streakt with lines of gold. The mist rose grey above the hill, And low the clouds of amber roU'd : The lady on the lofty tower Watcht the calm and silent hour. And, while she watcht, she saw advance A ship, with painted streamers gay ; She saw it on the green wave dance, And plunge amid the silver spray ; "W^ile from the forest's haunts, forlorn. Again she heard the bugle horn. The sails were full ; the breezes rose ; The billows curl'd along the shore ; And now the day began to close ; — The bugle horn was heard no more. But, rising from the watery way. An airy voice was heard to say : THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 153 " Watch no more the evening star ; Watch no more the billowy sea ; Lady, from the holy war Thy lover hastes to comfort thee : Lady, lady, cease to mourn ; Soon thy lover will return." Now she hastens to the bay. ; Now the rising storm she hears ; Now the smiling sailors say, " Lady, lady, check your fears : Trust us lady ; we will be Your pilots o'er the stormy sea." Now the little bark she view'd, Moor'd beside the flinty steep ; And now upon the foamy flood, The tranquil breezes seem'd to sleep. The moon arose ; her silver ray Seem'd on the silent deep to play. Now music stole across the main : It was a sweet but mournful tone ! It came a slow and dulcet strain ; It came from where the pale moon shone : And, while it pass'd across the sea. More soft, and soft, it seem'd to be. Now on the deck the lady stands ; The vessel steers across the main ; It steers towards the holy land. Never to return again ; Still the sailors cry, " We'll be Your pilots o'er the stormy sea." Now she hears a low voice say, " Deeper, deeper, deeper still ; Hark ! the black' ning billows play ; Hark ! the waves the vessel fill : Lower, lower, down we go ; All is dark and still below." * Now a flash of vivid light On the rolling deep was seen ! And now the Isvdy saw the knight. With doublet rich of gold and green : From the sockets of his eyes, A pale and streaming light she spies ! 154 THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. And now his form transparent stood, Smiling with a gliastly mien ; — And now the cahn and boundless Hood Was like the emerald, bright and green ; And now 'twas of a troubled hue, While, " Deeper, deeper," sang the crew. Slow advanced the morning light. Slow they plough' d the wavy tide ; When, on a cliff of dreadful height, A castle's lofty towers they spied : The lady heard the sailor-band Cry, " Lady, this is holy land. " Watch no more the glittering spray ; Watch no more the weedy sand ; Watch no more the star of day ; Lady, this is holy land : This castle's lord shall welcome thee ; Then, lady, lady, cheerful be." Now the castle gates they pass ; Now across the spacious square. Cover' d high with dewy grass. Trembling steals the lady fair : And now the castle's lord was seen. Clad in a doublet gold and green. He led her through the gothic hall. With bones and skulls encircled round ; " Oh, let not this thy soul appal !" He cried, "for this is holy ground." He led her through the chambers lone, 'Mid many a shriek and many a groan. Now to the banquet-room they came : Around a table of black stone She markt a faint and vapoury flame ; Upon the horrid feast it shone — And there, to close the maddening sight, Unuumber'd spectres met the light. Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright ; Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear ; Their bones were of a polisht white ; Gigantic did their ribs appear ! — And now the knight the lady led, And placed her at the table's head! — THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER. 155 Just now the lady woke : — for she Had slept upon the lofty tower, And dreams of dreadful phantasie Had fiird the lonely moon-light hour ; Her pillow was the turret-stone. And on her breast the pale moon shone. But now a real voice she hears : It was her lover's voice • — for he, To calm her bosom's rending fears, That night had cross' d the stormy sea : "I come," said he, " from Palestine, To prove myself, sweet lady, thine." "i'__,L_^ y-~t ■'- /*"] [This ballad is taken from Ritson's ' Robin Hood,' where it was given as corrected from a copy in the ' Collection of Old Ballads,' 1723. The title it there bears is as follows : — ' Robin Hood and Little John : being an account of their first meeting, their fierce encounter, and conquest. To which is added, their friendly agreement ; and how he came to be called Little John. Time of Arthur a Blard.' With regard to this latter point, ' the notion,' says Ritson, ' that he obtained this appellation ironically, from his superior stature, is doubtless ill-formed.' He admits, however, that it is ' of considerable antiquity,' being traceable at least as far back as to ' that most veracious historian, iMaister Hector Rois,' according to whom (Historic of Scotland, translatit be maister Johne Hellenden, Edin. ).i41,) Little John ' lies bene fourtene fut of hycht, with square membris effering thairto.' He this, how- ever, as it might, certain it is tliat ' the honour of his death and burial is, like that of Homer's birth, ' con- tended for by rival nations;' namely England, Scotland, and Ireland : the favoured spot in the first being ' the village of Hathersage, about six miles from Castleton, in Derbyshire; in Scotland, ' the kirke of I'ette, in Murray land, quliare,' says Bois, ' the banis of Lyiill Johne remanis in gret admiratioun of pepill ;' and, in the Emerald Isle, Arbor-hill, Dublin ; where, according to Mr. Walker, (Hist. Essay on the Dress of the Ancient and Modern Irish,) ' he was publicly executed for robbery.' The evidence in support of these claims, respectively, may be seen in Ritson, as above.] HEN Robin Hood was about twenty years old. He bappen'd to meet Little John, A jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade. For he was a lusty young man. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. 157 Tho' he was call'd Little, his Umbs they were large, And his stature was seven foot high ; Whereever he came, they quaked at his name, For soon he would make them to fly. How they came acquainted, I'll tell you in brief, If you Mould but listen awhile ; For this very jest, among all the rest, I think it may cause you to smile. For Robin Hood said to his jolly bowmen, Pray tarry you here in this grove ; And see that you all observe well my call. While thorough the forest I rove. We have had no sport for these fourteen long days. Therefore now abroad will I go ; Now should I be beat, and cannot retreat, My horn I will presently blow. Then he did shake hands with his merry men all. And bid them at present good b'yw'e ; Then as near the brook his journey he took, A stranger he chanc'd to esj)y. They happen' d to meet on a long narrow bridge. And neither of them would give way ; Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood, I'll shew you right Nottingham play. With that from his quiver an arrow he drew, A broad arrow with a goose-wing ; The stranger reply' d, I'll liquor thy hide. If thou offer to touch the string. Quoth bold Robin Hood, Thou dost prate like an ass. For were I to bend but my bow, I could send a dart, quite through thy proud heart, Before thou couldst strike me one blow. Thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger reply' d; Well arm'd with a long bow you stand. To shoot at my breast, while I, I jjrotost. Have nought but a staff in my hand. The name of a coward, quoth Robin, I scorn, Therefore my long bow I'll lay liy ; And now for thy sake, a staff I will take. The truth of thy manhood to try. 158 ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN, Then Robin Hood slept to a thicket of trees, And chose him a staff of ground oak ; Now this being done, away he did run To the stranger, and merrily spoke. Lo ! see my staff is histy and tough, Now here on the bridge we will play ; Whoever falls in, the other shall win The battle, and so we'll away. With all my whole heart, the stranger reply' d, I scorn in the least to give out : This said, they fell to't without more dispute. And their staffs they did flourish about. At first Robin he gave the stranger a bang, So hard that he made his bones ring ; The stranger he said. This must be repaid, I'll give you as good as you bring. So long as I'm able to handle a staff. To die in your debt, friend, I scorn : Then to it each goes, and follow their blows. As if they'd been threshing of corn. The stranger gave Robin a crack on the crown. Which caused the blood to appear ; Then Robin enrag'd, more fiercely engag'd, And follow'd his blows more severe. So thick and so fast he did lay it on him. With a passionate fury and ire ; At every stroke he made him to smoke, As if he had been all on fire. then into fury the stranger he grew. And gave him a terrible look, And with it a blow, that laid him full low. And tumbl'd him into the brook. 1 prithee, good fellow, O where art thou now ? The stranger, in laughter, he cry'd: Quoth bold Robin Hood, Good faith, in the flood, And floating along with the tide. I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul. With thee I'll no longer contend ; For needs must I say, thou hast got the day, Our battel shall be at an end. ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. 159 Then unto the bank he did presently wade. And pull'd himself out by a thorn ; "Winch done, at last he blowd a loud blast, Straightway on his fine bugle-horn. The eccho of which through the Tallies did fly. At which his stout bowmen appear'd. All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen. So up to their master they steer'd. O, what is the matter 1 quoth "William Stately, Good master, you are wet to the skin ; No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see. In fighting has tumbled me in He shall not go scot-free, the others reply' d ; So strait they were seizing him there. To duck him hkewise ; but Robin Hood cries. He is a stout fellow ; forbear. There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid. These bowmen upon me do wait ; There's threescore and nine ; if thou wilt be mine. Thou shalt have my livery strait. And other accoutrements fit for a man ; Speak up, jolly blade, never fear ; I'll teach you also the use of the bow. To shoot at the fat fallow deer. 0, here is my hand, the stranger reply' d, I'll serve you with all my whole heart ; My name is John Little, a man of good mettle, Ne'er doubt me, for I'll play my part. His name shall be alter' d, quoth William Stutely, And I will his godfather be ; Prepare then a feast, and none of the least, For we will be merry, quoth he. They presently fetch' d him a brace of fat does, "With humming strong liquor likewise ; They lov'd what was good ; so in the green wood This pretty sweet babe they baptize. He was, I must tell you, but feven foot high. And, may be, an ell in the waist ; A sweet pretty lad ; much feasting they had ; Bold Robin the christening grac'd. IGO ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN. With all his bowmen which stood in a ring, And were of the Nottingham breed ; Brave Stutely came then, with seven yeoman. And did in this manner proceed. This infant was called John Little, quoth he, His name shall be changed anon ; The words we'll transpose : so whereever he goes. His name shall be call'd Little John. They all with a shout made the elements ring ; As soon as the office was ore ; To feasting they went, with true merriment. And tippled strong liquor gillore. Then Robin he took the pretty sweet babe. And cloath'd him from top to the toe, In garments of green, most gay to be seen. And gave him a curious long bow. Thou shalt be an archer, as well as the best. And range in the green wood with us ; "Wliere we'll not want gold or silver, behold, While bishops have ought in their purse. We live here like 'squires, or lords of renown. Without ere a foot of free land ; We feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer. And every thing at our command. Then musick and dancing did finish the day ; At length, when the sun waxed low. Then all the whole train the grove did refrain. And unto their caves they did go. And so, ever after, as long as they liv'd, Altho' he was proper and tall. Yet, nevertheless, the truth to express. Still Little John thev did him call. [This ballad was written by Matthew Gregory Lewis, the well-known author of ' The Monk,' and other tales and ballads of the wild and marvellous ; and first appeared in his ' Romantic Tales,' London, 18(18, 12mo. ' It is founded,' he says, ' upon a tradition current in Northumberland. Indeed, an adventure nearly similar to Sir Guy's, is said to have taken place in various parts of Great Britain, particu- larly on thePentland Hills, in Scotland, (where the prisoners are supposed to be King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table,) and in Lancashire, where an ale-house near Chorley still exhibits the sign of a Sir J(jhn Stanley follow- ing an old man with a torch, while his horse starts back in terror at the objects, which are discovered through two im- mense iron gates — the ale-house is known by the name of the ' Iron Gates,' which are supposed to protect the entrance of an enchanted cavern in the neighbourhood. The female captive, I believe, is peculiar to Dunstanburgh Castle ; and certain sliining stones, which are occasionally found in its neighbourhood, and which are called ' Dunstanburgh Dia- monds,' are supposed by the peasants to form part of that immense treasure, with which the Lady will reward her deliverer. With regard to the castle itself, the interest at- taching to it is by no moans lessened by the circumstance of the ballad having been written in its neighbourhood, during Mr. Lewis' residence at Ilowick, the seat of Karl Grey ; to whose ancestor, Sir William Grey, it was granted by James the First. The ' Rumble Churn ' is a vortex im- mediately below the eminence on which the ruins stand, and so called from the noise made by the breaking of the waves against the rocks.] ■" IKE those in the head of a man just (load Are his eyes, and his beard's hke siiow ; But when here he came, his glance was a oJ flame. And his locks seemed the plumes of the crow. 162 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Since then are o'er forty summers and more ; Yet he still near the castle remains, And pines for a sight of that lady bright, Who wears the wizard's chains. Nor sun nor snow from the ruins to go Can force that aged wight ; And still the pile, hall, chapel, and aisle, He searches day and night : But find can he ne'er the winding stair, Which he past that beauty to see. Whom spells enthrall m the haunted hall, Wliere none but once may be. That once, regret will not let him forget ! — 'Twas night, and pelting showers Did patter and splash, whexi the lightning's flash Showed Dunstanburgh's grey towers. Raised high on a mound that castle frowned In ruined pagean-trie ; And where to the north did rocks jut forth, Its towers hung o'er the sea. Proud they stood, and darkened the flood ; For the cliffs were so rugged and steep, Had a plummet been dropt from their summit unstopt That plummet had reached the deep. Nor flower there grew ; nor tree e'er drew Its nurture from that ground ; Save a lonely yew, whose brandies threw Their baleful shade around. Loud was the roar on that soimding shore : Yet still could the Knight discern, Louder than all, the swell and the fall Of the bellowing Rumble Churn ! With strange turmoil did it bubble and boil. And echo from place to place ; So strong was its dash, and so high did it splash, That it waslit the castle's base : The spray, as it broke, appeared like smoke From a sea-volcano pouring ; And still did it rumble, and grumble, and tumble. Rioting ! raging ! roaring ! SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 163 Up the hill Sir Guy made his courser fly. And hoped, from the wind and the rain, That he there should find some refuge kind ; But he sought it long in vain ; For fast and hard each portal was barred. And against his efforts proof ; Till at length he espied a porch spread wide The shelter of its roof. — ' Gramercy, St. George !' quoth glad Sir Guy, And sought the porch with speed ; And fast to the yew, which near it grew. He bound his Barbary steed ; And safety found on that sheltered ground From the sky's increasing gloom ; From his brow he took his casque, and he shook The rain off, that burthened its plume. Then long he stood in mournful mood. With listless sullen air, Propt on his lance, and with indolent glance Watcht the red lightning's glare ; And sadly Ustened to the shower. On the clattering *oof that fell ; And counted twice the lonely hour. Tolled by some distant bell. But scarce that bell could midnight tell. When louder roared the thunder. And the bolt so red whizzed by his head, And burst the gates asunder. And, lo ! through the dark a glimmering spark He espied of lurid blue ; Onward it came, and a form all flame Soon struck liis wondering view! 'Twas an ancient man of visage wan. Gigantic was his height ; And his breast below there was seen to flow A beard of grizzled white : And flames o'er-spread his hairless head. And down his beard they streamed ; And in his hand a radiant wand Of burning iron gleamed. 164 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Of darkest gram, with flowing train, A wondrous robe he wore, "With many a charm, to work man's harm. In fire embroidered o'er ; And this rol)e was bomid his waste around With a triple chain red-hot ! — And still came nigher that phantom of fire. Till he reacht the self-same spot, Where stood Sir Guy, while his hair bristled high. And his breath he scarce could draw ; And he crost his breast, for, I wot, he guesst, 'Twas Belzebub's self that he saw ! And full on the Knight that ghastly wight Fixt his green and glassy eyes ; And he clanked his chain, and he howled with pain. Ere his words were heard to rise. — ' Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if your heart be right, And your nerves be firm and true, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! a beauty bright In durance waits for you. But, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! if you ever knew fright. That Dame forbear to view ; Or, Sir Knight, Sir Knight ! that you feasted your sight, While you live, you'll sorely rue !' — * That mortal ne'er drew vital air, WTio witnessed fear in me : Come what come will, come good, come ill. Lead on ! I'll follow thee !' — And now they go both high and low, Above and under ground, And in and out, and about and about, And roimd, and round, and romid I The storm is husht, and lets them hear The owlet's boding screech, As now through many a passage drear A vvdnding stair they reach. With beckoning hand, which flamed like a brand, Still on the Wizard led ; And well could Sir Guy hear a sob and a sigh, As up the first flight he sped ! SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 165 While the second he past with foosteps fast. He heard a death-bell toll ! — While he climbed the third, a whisper he heard, — * God's mercy on thy soul !' — And now at the top the wanderers stop A brazen gate before Of massive make ; and a living snake Was the bolt, which held the door. In many a fold round the staple 'twas roUd ; With venom its jaws ran o'er ; And that juice of hell, where-ever it fell, To a cuider burned the floor. When the monster beheld Sir Guy, he swelled With fury, and threw out his sting ; Sparks flasht from each eye, and he reared him on high, And prepared on the Warrior to spring ; But the Wizard's hand extended his wand. And the reptile drooped his crest. Yet strove to bite, in impotent spite. The groimd which gave him rest ! And now the gate is heard to grate, On its hinges turning slow ; Till on either side the valves yawn wide. And in the wanderers go. 'Twas a spacious hall, whose sides were all With sable hangings dight ; And whose echoing floor was diamonded o'er With marble black and white ; And of marble black as the raven's back A hundred steeds stood round ; And of marble white, by each, a knight Lay sleeping on the ground ; And a hundred shafts of laboured bronze The fretted roof upheld ; And the ponderous gloom of that vaulted room A hundred lights dispelled ; And a dead man's arm by a magic charm Each ghmmering taper bore. And where it was lopt, still dropt and dropt Thick gouts of clotted gore. 166 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Where ends the room, doth a chrystal tomb Its towering front uphold ; And one on each hand two skeletons stand, Which belonged to two giants of old : That on the right holds a faulchion bright. That on the left a hom ; And crowns of jet with jewels beset Their eyeless skulls adorn : And both these grim colossal kings With fingers long and lean Point towards the tomb, within whose womb A captive Dame is seen. A form more fair than that prisoner's ne'er Since the days of Eve was known ; Every glance that flew from her eyes of blue, Was worth an Emperor's throne. And one sweet kiss from her roseate lips Woidd have melted a bosom of stone. Soon as Sir Guy had met her eye. Knelt low that captive maid ; And her lips of love seemed fast to move, But he heard not what she said. Then her hands did she join in suppliant sign, Her hands more white than snow ; And like dews that streak the rose's cheek. Her tears began to flow. The warrior felt his stout heart melt. When he saw those fountains run : — ' Oh ! what can I do,' he cried, * for you ? Wliat mortal can do, shall be done !' — Then out and speaks the Wizard ; Hollow his accents fall I — * Was never man, since the world began, Could burst that chrystal wall. For the hand, which raised its magic frame. Had oft claspt Satan's own ; And the lid bears a name Young Knight, the same Is stamp'd on Satan's throne ; At its maker's birth long trembled the earth ; The skies dropt showers of gore ; And she, who to light gave the wonderous wight, Had died seven years before ; SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 167 And at Satan's right hand while keeping his stand, The foulest fiend of fire Shrunk back with awe, when the babe he saw, For it shockt its very sire ! But hark. Sir Knight ! and riddle aright The riddle I'll riddle to thee ; Thou'lt learn a way without delay To set yon damsel free. Seest yonder sword, with jewels rare Its dudgeon crusted o'er ? Seest yonder horn of ivory fair ? 'Twas Merlin's horn of yore ! That horn to sound, or sword to draw, Now, youth, your choice explain ! But that which you choose, beware how yon lose, For you never will find it again : And that once lost, all hopes are crost, Which now you fondly form ; And that once gone, the sun ne'er shone, A sadder wight to warm : But such keen woe, as never can know Oblivion's balmy power. With fixed despair your soul will share, Till comes your dying hour. Your choice now make for yon Beauty's sake ; To burst her bonds endeavour ; But that which you choose, beware how you lose ; Once lost, 'tis lost for ever !' In pensive mood awhile now stood Sir Guy, and gazed around ; Now he turned his sight to the left, to the right, Now he fixt it on the ground. Now the faulchion's blaze attracted his gaze ; On the hilt his fingers lay ; But he heard fear cry, — 'you're wrong, Sir Guy !' And he suatcht his hand away ! Now his steps he addrest towards the North and the West; Now he turned towards the East and the South ; Till with desperate thought the horn he caught, And prest it to his mouth. 168 SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. Hark ! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill, That the vaults like thunder ring ; And each marble horse stamps the floor with force. And from sleep the warriors spring ! And frightful stares each stony eye. As now with ponderous tread They rush on Sir Guy, poising on high Their spears to strike him dead. At this strange attack full swift sprang back, I wot, the startled Knight ! Away he threw the horn, and drew His faulchion keen and bright. But soon as the horn his grasp forsook, Was heard a cry of grief ; It seemed the yell of a soul in hell Made desperate of relief ! And straight each light was extinguisht quite, Save the flame so lurid-blue On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now Assumed a bloody hue), And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire From his glaring eye-balls drew ! And he stampt in rage, and he laught in scorn, While in thundering tone he roared, * Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn, When he might have unsheatht a sword I ' He said, and from his mouth there came A vapour blue and dank. Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death, For the Warrior senseless sank. Morning breaks ! again he wakes ; Lo ! in the porch he lies, And still in his heart he feels the dart. Which shot from the captive's eyes. From the ground he springs ! as if he had wings. The ruin he wanders o'er. And with prying look each cranny and nook His anxious eyes explore : But find can he ne'er the winding stair, Wliich he climbed that Dame to see. Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall. Where none but once may be. SIR GUY, THE SEEKER. 169 The earliest ray of dawning day Beholds his search hegun : The evening star ascends his car, Nor yet his search is done : Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call By ' Guy, the Seeker's' name ; For never he knows one hour's repose From his wish to find the Dame : But still he seeks, and aye he seeks, And seeks, and seeks in vain ; And still he repeats to all he meets, — ' Could I find the sword again !' Wliich words he follows with a groan. As if his heart would break ; And oh ! that groan has so strange a tone, It makes all hearers quake ! The villagers round know well its sound. And when they hear it poured, — ' Hark ! hark !' they cry ; ' the Seeker Guy Groans for the Wizard's sword.' — Twice twenty springs on their fragrant vdngs For his wound have brought no balm ; For still he's found But, hark ! what sound Disturbs the midnight calm ? Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell ? — "Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll ; His race is run ; his search is done.' — God's mercy on his soul ! %^ ^$k nlF %mn$c /J Fill m^ -n^kr^^ ^^"^'2aar-G^ [This liallad is taken from Percy's ' Reliques.' ' The original' he 'found in his folio MS .the breaches and defects in which,' he says, • rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. These,' he hoped, the reader would ' pardon , as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject.' The Dr. adds, ' that from the Scottish phrases here and there discernible in the poem, it should seem to have been originally com- posed beyond the Tweed.' Upon this hint subsequent collectors have acted ; and the result has been the bringing to light of a traditionary version still current in Scotland, which was probably the ' original ' of the celebrated folio MS. This version, the first three stanzas only of which had previously appeared in print, was first given entire by Mr. Dixon, in ' Scottish Traditional Versions of Ancient Bal- lads.' edited by him for the Percy Society, London, 184.'i; and will, by his permission, be found in the Appendix. The .same gentleman, in another work edited by him for the Percy Society, (Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, London, 184(),) gives, ' from an old ehap-book without date or printer'.s name,' a ballad entitled ' The Drunkard's Legacy,' which he considers to he the ' Modern ballad' alluded to by Percy, ' which,' says Afr. Dixon, ' although styled by him a miidern ballad, is only so comparatively speaking ; for it must have been written long anterior to Percy's time, and by his own confession, must be older than the latter portion of ' The Heir of Linne ' This ballad also, by the kindness of Mr. Dixon, the reader will find in the Appendix ] PART THE FIEST. ITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne : It is of a lord of faire Scotland, V/liich was the nnthriftv hcire of Linne. THE HEIR OF LINNE. 171 His father was a right good lord. His mother a lady of high degree ; But they, alas ! were dead, him froe. And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye witli merry cheare. To drinke and revell every night, To card and dice from eve to morne, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare. To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe. Of gold and fee he mote be bare. Soe fares the unthrifty lord of Liune Till all his gold is gone and spent ; And he maun sell his landes so broad. His house, and landes, and all his rent. His father had a keen stewarde. And John o' the Scales was called hee : But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee. Sayes, " Welcome, welcome, lord of Linne, Let nought disturb thy merry cheere ; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad. Good store of gold He give thee heere." " My gold is gone, my money is spent ; My lande nowe take it unto thee : Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee." Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a Gods-pennie ; But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold uj)on the horde, He was right glad his land to winne : " The gold is thine, the land is mine. And now He be the lord of Linne." Thus he hath sold his land soe broad. Both hill and licit, and moorc and fenne. All but a ])oorc and lonesome lodge. That stood far off in a lonely glenne. 172 THE HEIR OF LINNE. For soe he to his father hight, " My Sonne, when I am gonne," sayd hee, " Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad. And thou wilt spend thy gold so free : But sweare me nowe upon the roode. That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; For when all the world doth froAMi on thee. Thou there shalt find a faithful friend." The heire of Linne is full of golde : " And come with me, my friends," sayd hee, " Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." They ranted, drank, and merry made. Till all his gold it waxed thinne ; And then his friendes they slunk away ; They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. He had never a penny left in his purse. Never a penny left but three. And one was brass, another was lead. And another it was white mon^y. " Nowe well-aday," sayd the heire of Liime, " Nowe well-aday," and woe is mee ! For when I was the lord of Linne, I never wanted gold nor fee. But many a trvistye friend have I, And why shold I feel dole or care ? He borrow of them all by tumes, Soc need I not be never bare." But one, I wis, was not at home ; Another had payd his gold away j Another call'd him thriftless looue. And bade him sharpely wend his way. "Now well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne, " Now well-aday, and woe is me I For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee. To beg my bread from door to door I wis, it were a brenning shame : To rob and steal it were a sinnc: To worke my limbs I cannot frame. THE HEIR OF LINNE. 173 Now He away to lonesome lodge. For there my father bade me wend ; WTien all the world should frown on mee, I there shold find a trusty friend." PART THE SECOND. Away then hyed the heire of Linne O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne, Untill he came to lonesome lodge. That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. He looked up, he looked downe. In hope some comfort for to winne : But bare and lothly were the walles. " Here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of Linue. The little windowe dim and darke Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe ; No shimmering sunn here ever shone ; No halesome breeze here ever blew. No chair, ne table he mote spye. No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed. Nought save a rope with renning noose. That dangling hung up o'er his head. And over it in broad letters. These words were written so plain to see : " Ah ! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all. And brought thyselfe to penur'ie ? All this my boding mind misgave, I therefore left this trusty friend : Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace. And all thy shame and sorrows end." Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, Sorely shent was the heire of Linne ; His heart, I wis, was near to brast "With guilt and sorrowe, shame and siiine. Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three : " This is a trusty friend indeed. And is right welcome unto mee." 174 THE HEIR OF LINNE. Then round his necke the corde he drewe. And sprang aloft with his bodle : When lo ! the ceiling burst in twaine. And to the ground came tumbling hee. Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead : At length he looked, and sawe a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd. He took the bill and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there : Itt told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere. Two were full of the beaten golde, The third was full of white money ; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plaine to see : " Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ; Amend tliy life and follies past ; For but thou amend thee of thy life. That rope must be thy end at last." " And let it bee," sayd the heire of Linue ; " And let it bee, but if I amend : For here I ^^'ill make mine avow. This reade shall guide me to the end," Away then went with a merry cheare. Away then went the heire of Linne ; I vds, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere then looked hee ; There sate three lords upon a rowe. Were drinking of the wne so free. And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was hee. " I pray thee," he said, " good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mec." " Away, away, thou thriftless loone ; Away, away, this may not bee : For Christs curse on my head," he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennie." THE HEIR OF_^LINNE. 175 Then bespake tlie heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he : " Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet saint Charitie." " Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no almes of mee ; For if we shold hang any losel heere, The first we wold Ijegin with thee." Then bespake a good fellowe. Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord ; Sayd, " Turn againe, thou heire of Linne ; Some time thou wast a well good lord : Some time a good fellow thou hast been. And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; Therefore He lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee. And ever, I jn-ay thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie : For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee." Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood he answer' d him againe : " Now Christs curse on my head," he savd, " But I did lose by that bargaine. And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free. Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markcs, than I had it of thee." "I drawe you to record, lords," he said. With that he cast him a gods pennic : " Now by my fay," sayd the heire of Linne, " And here, good John, is thy money." And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold. And layd them down upon the bord : All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word. He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth inickle dinne. " The gold is thine, the land is mine. And now Ime againe the lord of Linne," 176 THE HEIR OF LINNE. Saves, " Have thou here, thou good fellowe. Forty pence thou didst lend mee : Now I am againe the lord of Linne, And forty poimds I will give thee. lie make the keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame ; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I -wis, good fellowe, I were to blame." " Now welladay !" sayth Joan o' the Scales : " Now welladay ! and woe is my life ! Yesterday I was lady of Linne, Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife." " Now fare thee well," sayd the heire of Linne ; " Farewell now, John o' the Scales," said hee : " Cbrists curse light on me, if ever again I bring my lands in jeopardy." M®^t)?i^gM tM M^Mi^'is. [This ballad was written by Robert Soiithey ; a name familiar to every lover of ' ballad lore.' It first appeared, it is believed, in ' Sharpe's London Magazine,' 1829. ' The story,' says Mr. Southey, ' is told by Taylor the Water - poet, in his ' Three Weeks, Three Days, and Three Hours' Observations, from London to Hamburgh in Germany ; amongst Jews and Gentiles, with Descriptions of Towns and Towers, Castles and Citadels, artificial Gallowses and natural Hangmen ; and dedicated for the present to the absent Odcombian Knight Errant, Sir Thomas Coryat." It is in the volume of his collected works, p. 82 of the third paging. CoUein, which is the scene of this story, is more probably Kollen.outhe Elbe, in Bohemia, or a town of the same name in Prussia, than Cologne, to which great city the reader will i)erceive I had good reason for transferring it.] PART I. OPRECIIT the Robber is taken at last, In Cologne they have him fast ; Trial is over, and sentence past ; And hopes of escape were vain he knew, For the llowiii(» moral ' burden :' — ' Hcpent therefore, O England ! Repent whilst you have space ; And do not, like tliis wicked Jew, Despise God's proffered grace.'] HEN as ill fair Jeriisfvlcm Our Saviour Christ did live, / And for the sins of all the world His own doar life did give ; The wicked Jews with scoffs and scorns Did dailye him molest, That never till he left his life. Our Saviour could not rest. 206 THE WANDERING JEW. When they had crown' d his head with thorns. And scourg'd him with disgrace, In scornful sort they led him forth Unto his dying place ; WTiere thousands thousands in the street Beheld him pass along. Yet not one gentle heart was there. That pittyd this his wrong. Both old and young reviled him. As in the street he went, And nought he found but churlish taunts, By every one's consent : His owne deare crosse he bore himself, A burthen far too great. Which made him in the street to faint, With blood and water-sweat. Being weary thus, he sought for rest, To ease his burthened soul. Upon a stone ; the which a wretch Did churlishly controul ; And sayd. Away ! thou king of Jews, Thou shalt not rest thee here ; Pass on ; thy execution place Thou seest, now draweth neare. And thereupon he thrust him thence ; At which our Saviour said, I sure will rest, but thou shalt walk. And have no journey stayd. With that this cursed shoemaker, For offering Christ this wrong, Left wife and children, house and all, And went from thence along. Where after he had seen the blood Of Jesus ('hrist thus shed, And to the cross his bodye nail'd, Away with speed he fled, Without returning back again Unto his dwelling place, And wandereth up and down the woi-ld, A runagate most base. THE WANDERING JEW. 207 No resting conlrl he find at all, No ease, nor hearts content ; No house, no home, no dwelling place : But wandring forth he went. From tow'n to town in foreign lands. With grieved conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt Of his fore-passed sin. Thus after some few ages past In wandring up and down. He much again desired to see Jerusalems fair town. But finding it all quite destroy' d. He wandred thence with woe. Our Saviours words which he had spoke. To verifie and show. I'll rest ! sayd hee, but thou shalt walk. So doth this wandring Jew From place to place, but cannot stay For seeing countries new ; Declaring still the power of him. Whereas he comes or goes ; And of all things done in the east, Since Christ his death, he shows. The world he still doth compass round And see those nations strange. That hearing of the name of Christ, Their idol gods do change : To whom he hath told wondrous things Of times forepast .and gone, And to the princes of the world Declares his cause of moan : Desiring still to be dissolv'd. And yield his mortal breath ; But, if the Lord hath thus decreed, lie shall not yet see death. For neither looks he old or young. But as he did those times, When Christ did suffer on the cross, For mortal sinners crimes. 208 THE WANDERING JEW. He hath past through many a foreign place, Arabia, Egypt, Africa, Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace, And through all Hungaria. Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, Those blest apostles deare ; Where he hath told our Saviours words, In countries far and near. And lately in Bohemia, With many a German town ; And now in Flanders, as tis thought. He wandreth up and down : Where learned men with him confer Of those his lingering days. And wonder much to hear him tell His jouruies, and his ways. If people give this Jew an alms. The most that he will take Is not above a groat a time : Which he for Jesus' sake. Will kindly give unto the poor. And thereof make no spare. Affirming still that Jesus Christ Of him hath daily care. He ne'er was seen to laugh or smile. But weep and make great moan ; Lamenting still his miseries, And days forepast and gone : If he hear any one blaspheme. Or take God's name in vaine. He tells them that they crucifie Their Saviour Christ again. ' If you had seen his death,' saith he, ' As these mine eyes have done. Ten thousand thousand times would ye, His torments think uj)on : And suffer for his sake all j)aine. All torments, and all woes.' These are his words and this his life Whereas he comes or goes. ?«i]?tri^tmm$«o [This ' fine morsel of heroic poetry," as it is styled by Dr. Percy, was first published in 1719, under the title, • Hardyknute, a Fragment ;' Edinburgh, folio. The ex- penses of publication were borne, in part at least, by the Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert Klliot, afterwards Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland, who believed it to be, what it was represented to them as being, a genuine old ballad. As such too it was admitted by Allan Ramsay into his ' Evergreen, being a Collection of Scots poems wrote by the ingenious before 16<((i ;' and it seems to have ' generally passed for ancient,' until Dr. Percy, in his ' Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' London, 1755, put an end to whatever doubt may have existed in refer- ence to the point, by giving the name of the author. This was Lady AVardlaw, wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw, of Balumlie, in Fife. The MS. was sent to Lord IJinnington by her brother-in-law. Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, as having been ' found by him in an old vault at Dumfer- line, written on vellum, in a fair Gothic character, but much defaced by time.' Subsequently, however. Lady Wardlaw acknowledged being the author, and by way of proving herself .so, produced the last two stanzas, whicli were not in the copy first printed] TATELY stcpt he east the Ava', And stately stept he west, Full seventy years he now had seen, Wi' scarce seven years of rest. lie liv'd when Britons breach of faith Wrought Scotland mickle wae : And ay his sword tauld to their cost. He was their deadlve fae. 210 HARDYKNUTE. High on a hill his castle stood. With ha's and tow'rs a height, And goodly chambers fair to se, Where he lodged mony a knight. His dame sae peerless anes and fair, For chast and beauty deem'd, Nae marrow had in all the land. Save Elenor the queen. Full thirteen sons to him she bare. All men of valour stout ; In bloody fight with sword in hand Nine lost their lives hot doubt : Four yet remain, lang may they live To stand by hege and land ; High was their fame, high was their might, And high was their command. Great love they bare to Fairly fair. Their sister saft and dear, Her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp. And gowden glist her hair. What waefu' wae her beauty bred ! Waefu' to young and auld, Waefu' I trow to kyth and kin. As story ever tauld. The king of Norse in summer tyde, Puff'd up with pow'r and might, Landed in fair Scotland the isle With mony a hardy knight. The tydings to our good Scots king Came, as he sat at dine, With noble chiefs in brave aray. Drinking the blood-red wine. " To horse, to horse, my royal liege, Your faes stand on the strand. Full twenty thousand glittering spears The king of Norse commands." " Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray," Our good king rose and cry'd, A trustier beast in a' the land A Scots king nevir try'd. HARDYKNUTE. 211 " Go little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives ou hill sae hie, To draw his sword, the dread of faes. And haste and follow me." The little page flew swift as dart Flung by his master's arm, " Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute, And rid your king frae harm." Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, Sae did his dark-brown brow ; His looks grew keen, as they were wont In dangers great to do ; He's ta'eu a horn as green as glass. And gi'en five sounds sae shill. That trees in green wood shook thereat, Sae loud rang ilka hill. His sons in manly sport and glee, Had past that summer's mom. When low down in a grassy dale. They heard their father's horn. "That horn," quo' they, "ne'er sounds in peace, We've other sport to bide." And soon they hy'd them up the hill, And soon were at his side. "Late, late the yestreen I ween'd in peace To end my lengthened life. My age might well excuse my arm Frae manly feats of strife ; But now that Norse do's proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall. It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute, He fear'd to fight or fall. Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow. Thy arrows shoot sae leel. That mony a comely countenance They've turnd to deadly pale. Brade Thom.as take you l)ut your lance. You need nae weapons mair, If you fight vnt as you did ancs 'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. 212 HARDYKNUTE. And Malcolm, light of foot as stag That runs in forest wild, Get me my thousands three of men Well Ijrcd to sword and shield : Bring me my horse and harnisine. My blade of mettal clear. If faes but ken'd the hand it bare. They soon had fled for fear. Farewell my dame sae peerless good, (And took her by the hand,) Fairer to me in age you seem. Than maids for beauty fam'd. My youngest son shall here remain To guard these stately towers. And shut the silver bolt that keeps Sae fast your pauited bowers." And first she wet her comely cheiks, And then her boddice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist. Well plett with silver sheen ; And apron set with mony a dice Of needle-wark sae rare. Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess. Save that of Fairly fair. And he has ridden o'er miur and moss. O'er hills and mony a glen. When he came to a wounded knight INIaking a hea^-y mane ; " Here maun I lye, here mavm I dye. By treacherie's false guiles ; Witless I was that e'er ga faith To wicked woman's smiles." " Sir knight, gin you were in my bower. To lean on silken seat, My lady's kindly care you'd prove. Who ne'er knew deadly hate ; Herself wou'd watch you a' the day. Her maids a dead of night ; And Fairly fair your heart wou'd chear, As she stands in your sight. HARDYKNUTE. 213 Arise young knight, and mount your stead, Full lowns the shynand day : Choose frae my menzie whom ye please To lead you on the way." With smileless look, and visage wan The wounded knight reply'd, " Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abyde. To me nae after day nor night Can e're be sweet or fair. But soon beneath some draping tree, Cauld death shall end my care." With him nae pleading might prevail ; Brave Hardyknute to gain With fairest words, and reason strong, Strave courteously in vain. Syne he has gane far hynd out o'er Lord Chattan's land sae wide ; That lord a worthy wight was ay, Wlien faes his courage sey'd : Of Pictish race by mother's side. When Picts rul'd Caledon, Lord Chattan claim'd the princely maid, Wlien he sav'd Pictish crown. Now with his fierce and stalwart train. He reach' d a rising bight, Quhair braid encampit on the dale, Norss menzie lay in sicht. " Yonder my valiant sons and feirs Our raging revers wait On the unconquert Scottish sward To try with us their fate. Make orisons to him that sav'd Our sauls upon the rude ; Syne bravely shaw your veins are fill'd With Caledonian blade.' Then furth he drew his trusty glave. While thousands all around Drawn frae their sheaths glanc'd in the sun And loud the bougies sound. 214 HARDYKNUTE. To joyn his king adoun the hill In hast his merch he made, While, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit Afore him stately strade, " Thrice welcome valiant stoup of weir, Thy nations shield and pride ; Thy king nae reason has to fear When thou art by his side." Wlien bows were bent and darts were thrawa ; For thrang scarce cou'd they flee ; The darts clove arrows as they met. The arrows dart the tree. Lang did they rage and fight fu' fierce, With little skaith to mou. But bloody, bloody was the field, Ere that lang day was done. The king of Scots, that sindle brook' d The war that look'd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow. Sin bows seem'd but delay. Quoth noble Rothsay, " Mine I'll keep, I wat it's bled a score." " Haste up my merry men," cry'd the king, As he rode on before. The king of Norse he sought to find, With him to mense the faught, But on his forehead there did light A sharp unsonsie shaft ; As he his hand put up to feel The wound, an arrow keen, O waefu' chance ! there pinn'd his hand In midst between his een. " Revenge, revenge," cry'd Rothsay' s heir, " Your mail-coat sha' na bide The strength and sharpness of my dart :" Then sent it through his side. Another arrow well he mark'd. It picrc'd his neck in twa. His hands then (juat the silver reins. He low as earth did fa'. HARDYKNUTE. 215 " Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleeds !" Again vvi' migbit he drew And gesture dread his sturdy bow. Fast the braid arrow flew : Wae to the knight he ettled at ; Lament now queen Elgreed ; High dames too wail your darling's fall. His youth and eomely meed. " Take aff, take aff his costly jupe (Of gold well was it twin' d, Knit like the fowler's net, through quhilk, His steelly harness shin'd) Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid Him venge the blood it bears ; Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears." Proud Norse with giant body tall, Braid shoulders and arms strong, Cry'd, " Wliere is Hardyknute sae fam'd, And fear'd at Britain's throne : Tho' Britons tremble at his name, I soon shall make him wail. That e'er my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail." That brag his stout heart cou'd na bide, It lent him youthfu' micht : " I'm Hardyknute ; tbis day," he cry'd, "To Scotland's king I heght To lay thee low, as horses hoof ; My word I mean to keep." Syne with the first stroke e'er be strake. He garr'd his body bleed. Norss' een like gray gosehawk's stair'd wyld> He sigb'd wi' shame and spite ; " Disgrac'd is now my far-fam'd arm That left thee power to strike :" Then ga' his bead a blow sae fell. It made him doun to stoup. As laigh as he to ladies us'd In courtly guise to lout. 216 HARDYKNUTE. Fu' soon he rais'd his bent body. His bow he marvell'd sair, Sin blows till then on him but darr'd As touch of Fairly fair: Norse marvell'd too as sair as he To see his stately look ; Sae soon as e'er he strake a fae, Sae soon his life he took. Where like a fire to heather set, Bauld Thomas did advance, Ane sturdy fae with look enrag'd Up toward him did prance ; He spurr'd his steid through thickest ranks The hardy youth to quell, Wha stood unmov'd at his approach His fury to repell. " That short brown shaft sae meanly trimm'd. Looks like poor Scotlands gear, But dreadfull seems the rusty point !" And loud he leugh in jear. " Oft Britons bood has dimm'd its shine ; This point cut short their vaunt :" SvTie pierc'd the boasters bearded cheek ; Nae time he took to taunt. Short while he m his saddle swang, His stirrup was nae stay, Sae feeble hang his unbent knee Sure taikeu he was fey : Swith on the harden't clay he fell, Right far was heard the thud : But Thomas look't nae as he lay All waltering in his blud : With careless gesture, mind unmov't, On rode he north the plain ; His seem in throng of fiercest strife, When winner ay the same : Not yet his heart dames dimplet cheek Could mease soft love to bruik. Till vengefu' Ann return' d his scorn. Then languid grew his luik. HARDYKNUTE. 217 In thraws of death, with walowit cheik All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriours lay, Ne're to arise again ; Ne're to return to native land, Nae mair with blithsome sounds To boast the glories of the day, And shaw their shining wounds. On Norways coast the widowit dame May wash the rocks with tears. May lang luik ow'r the shipless seas Befor her mate appears. Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain ; Thy lord lyes in the clay ; The valiant Scots nae revers thole To carry life away. Here on a lee, where stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands fu' fierce that summer's day Fill'd keen war's black intent. Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknutc, Let Norse the name ay dread, Ay how he faugh t, aft how he spar'd. Shall latest ages read. Now loud and chill blew th' westhn wind, Sair beat the heavy shower. Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute Wan near his stately tower. His tow'r that us'd wi' torches blaze To shine sae far at night, Seem'd now as black as mourning weed, Nae marvel sair he sish'd. " There's nae light in my lady's bower. There's nae light in my ha' ; Nae blink shines round my Faikly fair. Nor ward stands on my wa' ; What bodes it ? Roljert, Tliomas, say ;" — Nae answer fitts their dread. " Stand back, my sons, Fie be your guide ;' But by they past with speed. " i\.s fast I've sped owre Scotlands faes," — There ceas'd his brag of weir, Sair sham'd to mind ought but his dame. And maiden Fairly fair. Black fear he felt, but what to fear He wist nae yet ; wi' dread Sair shook his body, sair his limbs. And a' the warrior fled. [lu this ballad as printed in a work entitled, ' Scottisli Tragic liallads,' London, 178L 'n wliicb, to use tlic Editor's own words, ' the mutilated Fragment of llardyknute was given in its original perfection,' the latter half of stanza 13 ran thus: — ' Still him to win strave Hardyknute, Nor strave he lang in vain ; Short pleiding eithly micht prevale Him to his lure to gain.' And between this stanza and that which in the original edition, and iu our copy, stands next, was inserted the following : — ' I will return wi' speid to bide Your plaint and mend your wae : But private grudge maun neir be quelled, IJefore our countries fae. Mordac, thy eild may best be spaird The fields of stryfe fraemang ; Convey Sir Knieht to my abode, And meise his egre pang.' * To which was appended tliis note. — ' This stanza is now first printed. It is surprising its omis- sion was not marked in the fragment formerly published, as without it the circumstance of the knight's complaint is altogether foreign and vague. The loss was attempted to be glossed over by many variations of the preceding four lines ; but the defect was palpable to the most inatten- tive reader.' Be this as it may, the stanza was not found in the original edition, nor has it been adopted in any subsequent one ; and the accomplished Editor of the work in which it first appeared, was in all probability its author. It seemed necessary, however, to give it and the alteration of the preceding stanza here, as without them the 'Second Part' is unintelligible.] [This ' second pait ' of ' Hardyknute ' was fii'tt pub- lished in thL woik mentioned m tlic note on pigo 21!!. entitled, Scottish Tragic Ballads, London, 1781 The editor professed, in his ' Dissertation on the Tiagic Ballad,' picfixtd to the woik, to be ' indebted, foi inoit of the stani-as recovered, to tht menuiv of a lidy in )>anarksliiic ' He subsequently IiowtNti admitted that they were his own composition To Mr I'lnkerton, theiefoic, the readei is indebted foi a ' continuation," which, unlike the gtneiahty of suth productions, is little, if at nil, mftiior to the oiii