Thou speakest proud words, says the King of Spain,

Thou harper here, to me;

There is a man within this hall

Will beat thy lad and thee.

O, let that man come down, he said,
A sight of him would I see:
And when he hath beaten well my lad,
Then he shall beat me.

Down then came the Kemperye man,
And looked him in the ear:

For all the gold that was under heaven,

He durst not nye him near.

And how now, Kempe, said the King of Spain,
And now, what aileth thee?

He says, it is writ in his forehead,

All and in gramarye,

That for all the gold that is under heaven,

I dare not nye him nigh.

Then King Estmere pulled forth his harp,
And played a pretty thing:

The lady upstarted from the board,

And would have gone from the king.

Stay thy harp, thou proud harper,
For God's love, I pray thee;
For and thou playest as thou began,

*

Thou'lt till my bride from me.

He struck upon his harp again,
And played a pretty thing;
The lady laughed a loud laughter,
As she sat by the king.

* Draw till, or to you,-entice away.

Says, sell me this harp, thou proud harper,
And thy strings all;

For as many gold nobles thou shalt have
As here be rings in the hall.

What would you do with my harp, he said,

If I did sell it ye?

To play my wife and me a fitt, †

When abed together we be.

Now sell me, quoth he, thy bride so gay,

As she sits by thy knee,

And as many gold nobles I will give

As leaves been on a tree.

And what would ye do with my bride so gay,

If I did sell her thee?

More seemly it is for her fair body

To lie by me than thee.

He played again both loud and shrill,

And Adler he did sing,

O lady! this is thy own true love,
No harper, but a king.

O lady! this is thy own true love,
As plainly thou mayst see:
And I'll rid thee of that foul paynim,
Who parts thy love and thee.

The lady looked, the lady blushed,
And blushed and looked again,
While Adler he hath drawn his brand,
And hath the Sowdan slain.

Up then rose the Kemperye men,

And loud they 'gan to cry,

* A piece of music.

Ah! traitors, ye have slain our king,
And therefore ye shall die.

King Estmere threw the harp aside,
And swith he drew his brand,
And Estmere he, and Adler young,
Right stiff in stour can stand.

And aye their swords so sore can bite,
Through help of gramarye,

That soon they have slain the Kemperye men,
Or forced them forth to flee.

King Estmere took that fair lady,

And married to his wife,

And brought her home to merry England,
With her to lead his life.

Quickly, immediately.

SIR CAULINE.

An old romantic legend, of which the copy in Dr. Percy's manuscript being inaccurate in many places, and having the appearance of being transcribed very faultily, he has added several stanzas, and completed it in a style answerable, in his judgment, to the original intent. Mr. Wordsworth has passed a high encomium on this, amongst other of Dr. Percy's works. See his Supplementary Essay.

IN Ireland, far over the sea,

There dwelleth a bonny King;

And with him a young and comely knight,
Men call him Sir Cauline.

The king had a lady to his daughter,
In fashion she had no peer,
And princely wights that lady wooed
To be their wedded feere.*

Sir Cauline loveth her best of all,
But nothing durst he say,

Nor descreeve + his counsel to no man,
But dearly he loved this may. ‡

Till in a day it so befell,

Great dill to him was dight, §

The maiden's love removed his mind,

To care-bed went the knight.

* Mate,-consort. Describe, unfold. Maiden. Grief was laid on him.

One while he spread his arms him fro',
One while he spread them nigh-
And ah! but I win that lady's love,
For dole now I must die.

And when our parish Mass was done,
Our king was bowne to dine,
He says, Where is Sir Cauline,
That is wont to serve the wine?

Then answered him a courteous knight,
And fast his hands 'gan wring,
Sir Cauline is sick, and like to die,
Without a good leeching.

Fetch me down my daughter dear,

She is a leech + full fine,

Go take him dough, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wine so red,
Loth I were him to tine.

Fair Christabelle to his chamber goes,
Her maidens following nigh,-

O well, she saith, how doth my lord?
O sick, thou fair lady!

• Ready.

+ Physician; leechinge, any medicinal or surgical application. This expression is of universal occurrence in ancient writings, both prose and verse. It was a practice, derived from the Gothic and Celtic nations, for ladies even of the highest rank, to understand some principles of medicine and surgery, and especially to be prepared with ligaments, balms, and unguents, for the purpose of staunching and healing the wounds of their knights, or husbands. It is mentioned, says Dr. Percy, even so late as the time of Queen Elizabeth, among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the "eldest of them are skilled in surgery." Many examples of this kind might be adduced from ancient romances and poems. See an interesting scene in Tasso, (Canto xix.), where the amiable Princess Erminia heals the wounds of her lover, Tancred.

Lose.