King Malcolm and Six Colbin.

[From Buchan's Ancient Ballads and Songs, &c.']

THERE ance liv'd a king in fair Scotland,
King Malcolm called by name;
Whom ancient history gives record,
For valour, worth, and fame.

And it fell ance upon a day,

The king sat down to dine;

And then he miss'd a favourite knight,
Whose name was Sir Colvin.

But out it speaks another knight,

Ane o' Sir Colvin's kin;
'He's lyin' in bed right sick in love,
All for your daughter Jean.'

'O waes me,' said the royal king,
'I'm sorry for the same;

She maun take bread and wine sae red,
Give it to Sir Colvin,'

Then gently did she bear the bread,

Her page did carry the wine;
And set a table at his bed,-
'Sir Colvin, rise and dine.'

'O well love I the wine, lady,

Come frae your lovely hand;
But better I love your fair body,

Than all fair Scotland's strand.'

'O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin,
Let all your folly be;

My love must be by honour won,

Or nane shall enjoy me.

But on the head o' Elrick's hill,

Near by yon sharp hawthorn,

Where never a man with life e'er came

Sin' our sweet Christ was born;

O ye'll gang there and walk a' night,
And boldly blaw your horn;
With honour that ye do return,
Ye'll marry me the morn.'

Then up it raise him, Sir Colvin,
And dress'd in armour keen;
And he is on to Elrick s hill,
Without light o' the meen.

At midnight mark the meen upstarts,
The knight walk'd up and down;
While loudest cracks o' thunder roar'd,
Out ower the bent sae brown.

Then by the twinkling of an e'e,
He spied an armed knight;
A fair lady bearing his brand,
Wi' torches burning bright.

Then he cried high as he came nigh,
'Coward, thief, I bid you flee!
There is not ane comes to this hill,
But must engage wi' me.

Ye'll best take road before I come,
And best take foot and flee;
Here is a sword baith sharp and broad,
Will quarter you in three.'

Sir Colvin said, 'I'm not afraid

Of any here I see;

You ha'e not ta'en your God before,
Less dread ha'e I o' thee.'

Sir Colvin then he drew his sword,
His foe he drew his brand;

And they fought there on Elrick's hill
Till they were bluidy men.

The first an' stroke the knight he strake, Ga'e Colvin a slight wound;

The next an' stroke Lord Colvin strake, Brought's foe unto the ground.

'I yield, I yield,' the knight he said, I fairly yield to thee;

Nae ane came e'er to Elrick-hill

E'er gain'd such victorie.

I and my forbears here did haunt
Three hundred years and more;
I'm safe to swear a solemn oath,
We were never beat before.'

'An asking,' said the lady gay,
'An asking ye'll grant me.'
"Ask on, ask on,' said Sir Colvin,
"What may your asking be?'

'Ye'll gi'e me hame my wounded knight Let me fare on my way;

And I'se ne'er be seen on Elrick's hill,
By night, nor yet by day.
And to this place we'll come nae mair,
Could we win safe away.

To trouble any Christian one
Lives in the righteous law;

We'll come nae mair unto this place,
Could we win safe awa'.

"O ye'se get hame your wounded knight,

Ye shall not gang alane;

But I maun ha'e a word o' him,
Before that we twa twine.'

Sir Colvin being a book-learn'd man.
Sae gude in fencing tee;

He's drawn a stroke behind his hand,
And followed in speedilie.

Sae fierce a stroke Sir Colvin's drawn,
And followed in speedilie;

The knight's brand, and sword hand,
In the air he gar'd them flee.

It flew sae high into the sky,
And lighted on the ground;

The rings that were on these fingers,
Were worth five hundred pound.

Up he has ta'en that bluidy hand,
Set it before the king;

And the morn it was Wednesday,
When he married his daughter Jean.

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 great 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 Dr., some idea may be formed by comparing the ballad, as given by him, with one published by Mr. Buchan, in his Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland. (Edinb. 1828,)' entitled King Malcolm and Sir Colvin.' 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 Cauline;' yet the resemblance of the latter to the former, as far as it goes, is, notwithstanding, very striking, and on the supposition of their being two independent ballads, not a little remarkable. Probably, however, the old Scotch ballad published by Mr. Buchan, or some version of it, formed the groundwork of Sir Cauline.' Or it may be regarded as 'some illiterate minstrel's faulty recitation."

THE FIRST PART.

N Ireland, ferr over the sea,

There dwelleth a bonnye kinge;

And with him a yong and comlye knighte,

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 winne 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 handes gan wringe:
Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechinge.

Fetche me downe my daughter deere,

She is a leeche fulle fine:

Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;
Lothe I were him to tine.

Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes,
Her maydens followyng nye:

O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?
O sicke, thou fayr ladyè.

Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame,
Never lye soe cowardlee ;

For it is told in my fathers halle,

You dye for love of mee.

Fayre ladye, it is for your lov

That all this dill I drye:

For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, Then were I brought from bale to blisse,