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 stately stept he west;
Full seventy years he now had seen,
With scarce seven years of rest:
He lived when Britons' breach of faith
Wrought Scotland mickle woe,

And aye his sword told to their cost,
He was their deadly foe.

High on a hill his Castle stood,
Wi' halls and towers aheight,
And goodly chambers fair to see,
Where he lodged many a knight.

His dame, so peerless once, and fair,
For chaste, and beauty, sheen,
No marrow had in all the land,
Save Emergard the Queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare,
All men of valour stout;

In bloody fight, wi' sword in hand,
Nine lost their lives no doubt.
Four yet remained; long mote they live
To stand by liege and land!

High was their fame, high was their might,
And high was their command.

Great love they bare to Fairly fair,

Their sister soft and dear,

Her girdle show'd her middle jimp,
And golden glist her hair.
What woeful woe her beauty bred!

Woeful to young and old;
Woeful I trow to kith and kin,
As story ever told.

The King of Norse, in summer tide,
Puft up with power and might,
Landed in fair Scotland the isle,
With many a hardy knight.
The tidings to our good Scot's King
Came as he sat at dine,

With noble chiefs, in brave array,
Drinking the blood-red wine.

To horse, to horse, my royal liege!
Your foes stand on the strand;
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The Chiefs of Norse command.

* Equal.

Bring me my steed Madge dapple grey,
Our good king rose and cried:

A trustier beast in all the land
A Scot's King never did ride.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,
Who lives on hill so high,

To draw his sword, the dread of foes!
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 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,
And given five sounds so shrill,

That trees in green-wood shook thereat,
So loud rang ilka hill.

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
To end my lengthened life;
My age might well excuse my arm
From manly feats of strife:

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;
Thy arrows shoot so leil,
That many a comely countenance
They've turned to deadly pale.
Brave Thomas, take ye but
your lance,
Ye need nae weapons mair,

If ye fight with it as ye did once,
'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.

And Malcolm, light of foot as stag
That runs in forest wild,

Get me my thousands three of men
Well bred to sword and shield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine,
My blade of metal clear;

If foes but kenn'd the hand it bare,
They soon had fled for fear.

Farewell, my dame, so peerless good,

And took her by the hand; Fairer to me in age you seem,

Than maids for beauty famed:
My youngest son shall here remain,
To guard these stately towers,
And shoot the silver bolt that keeps
So fast your painted bowers.

And first she wet her comely cheeks,
And then her bodice green:

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,
By treachery's false guiles;
Witless I was, that ere gave faith
To wicked woman's smiles.

Sir Knight, if ye were in my bower,
To lean on silken seat,

My lady's kindly care you'd prove,
Who never kenn'd deadly hate;
Herself would watch you all the day,
Her maids, at dead of night;
And Fairly fair your heart would cheer,
As she stands in your sight.

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,
Can e'er be sweet or fair;

But soon, beneath some drooping tree,
Cold death shall end my care.