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 gaye;

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 chivalrye,

When lo upon the fourth morninge
A sorrowfulle sight they see.

A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke,
All foule of limbe and lere ;
Two goggling eyen 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 hend Soldàin!

Behold these heads I beare with me!
They are kings which he hath slain.

The Eldridge knight is his own cousine,
Whom a knight of thine hath shent :
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.

But yette he will appease his wrath
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.

The king he turned him round aboute,
And in his heart was woe:

Is there never a knighte of my round table,
This matter will undergoe?

Is there never a knighte amongst yee all
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,
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 soldan,
It made their hearts to quail.

All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
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:

Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn,
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 stiff 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 hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.

Then forthe the stranger knight he came
In his blacke armour dight:

The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,

And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett
Within the lists soe broad;

And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
And thrice she deeply sighde.

The soldan strucke a second stroke,
And made the bloude 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,

When 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 intò the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.

But he for payne and lacke of bloude
Was fallen intò a swounde,

And there all walteringe in his gore,
Lay lifelesse on the grounde.

Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare,

Thou art a leeche of skille;

Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,

Downe then steppeth that fayre ladyè,
To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,
And shriekte and swound awaye.

Sir Cauline juste lifte 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 lavde 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 followe 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.

[This ballad is taken from The Minstrelsy of the Scot tish Border,' where it was given, as never before published, partly from one, under the same title, in Mrs. Brown's Collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, penes Edit. The stanzas appearing to possess most merit were selected from each copy.' It is to be regretted that Sir Walter Scott did not give the two versions in their genuine state rather than a third made up of them. Some idea, however, of what they were may be gotten from comparing the ballad, as given by him, with what Mr. Motherwell calls a less complete version' of it, which he prints in his Minstrelsy,' under the title of The Jolly Goshawk.' With regard to the story, there is,' Sir Walter Scott says, 'some resemblance betwixt it and an Irish Fairy Tale, called The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland.' The princess, being desperately in love with Carral, despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, resting upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the Princess of Scotland.]

WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk, Gin your feathering be sheen !" "And waly, waly, my master dear,