HARDYKNUTE. THIS celebrated and beautiful ballad first appeared anonymously in 1719. The date of the story refers to 1263; when Haco, king of Norway, made a descent on Scotland, and was defeated. Like many other beautiful compositions, it is, however, a modern forgery; and has been ascertained to be either the production of Lady Wardlaw, or of Sir John Nichols, who made use of her intervention in its publication. A second part, by Mr. Pinkerton, was published in 1781; which is inferior, upon the whole, but shews much ingenuity in seizing on a prominent point to establish a connexion between the two. STATELY stept he east the Ha', And aye his sword told to their cost, High on a hill his Castle stood, His dame, so peerless once, and fair, Full thirteen sons to him she bare, In bloody fight, wi' sword in hand, High was their fame, high was their might, Great love they bare to Fairly fair, Their sister soft and dear, Her girdle show'd her middle jimp, Woeful to young and old; The King of Norse, in summer tide, With noble chiefs, in brave array, To horse, to horse, my royal liege! * Equal. Bring me my steed Madge dapple grey, A trustier beast in all the land Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, To draw his sword, the dread of foes! The little page flew swift as dart Flung by his master's arm; Come down, come down, Lord Hardyknute, And rid your King from harm. Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, So did his dark-brown brow; His looks grew keen as they were wont In danger great to do. He has ta'en a horn as green as grass, That trees in green-wood shook thereat, His sons in manly sport and glee Had past the summer's morn; When lo! down in a grassy dale They heard their father's horn. That horn, quoth they, ne'er sounds in peace, We've other sport to bide; And soon they hied them up And soon were at his side. the hill, Late yestere'en, I ween'd in peace But now that Norse does proudly boast Fair Scotland to enthrall, It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute, He feared to fight or fall. Robin of Rothsay bend thy bow; If ye fight with it as ye did once, And Malcolm, light of foot as stag Get me my thousands three of men If foes but kenn'd the hand it bare, Farewell, my dame, so peerless good, And took her by the hand; Fairer to me in age you seem, Than maids for beauty famed: And first she wet her comely cheeks, The silken cords of twirtle twist Were plait with silver sheen; I And apron set with many a dyce Of needle-work so rare, Wove by no hand, as ye may guess, Save that of Fairly fair. And he has ridden o'er moor and moss, O'er hills and many a glen, When he came to a wounded knight, Making a heavy moan: Here maun I lie, here maun I die, Sir Knight, if ye were in my bower, My lady's kindly care you'd prove, Arise, young knight, and mount your steed, Bright lows the shyning day; Choose from my menzie whom ye please, To lead ye on the way. With smile-less luck, and visage wan, The wounded knight replied, Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I must abide. To me no after day nor night, But soon, beneath some drooping tree, |