IMITATIONS.

[This fine morsel of heroic poetry,' as it is styled by Dr. Percy, was first published in 1719, under the title, Hardyknute, a Fragment;' Edinburgh, folio. The expenses of publication were borne, in part at least, by the Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert Elliot, afterwards Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland, who believed it to be, what it was represented to them as being, a genuine old ballad. As such too it was admitted by Allan Ramsay into his Evergreen, being a Collection of Scots poems wrote by the ingenious before 1600; and it seems to have generally passed for ancient,' until Dr. Percy, in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' London, 1755, put an end to whatever doubt may have existed in reference to the point, by giving the name of the author. This was Lady Wardlaw, wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw, of Balumlie, in Fife. The MS. was sent to Lord Binnington by her brother-in-law, Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, as having been found by him in an old vault at Dumferline, written on vellum, in a fair Gothic character, but much defaced by time.' Subsequently, however, Lady Wardlaw acknowledged being the author, and by way of proving herself so, produced the last two stanzas, which were not in the copy first printed]

TATELY stept he east the wa',
And stately stept he west,

Full seventy years he now had seen,
Wi' scarce seven years of rest.

He liv'd when Britons breach of faith
Wrought Scotland mickle wae:
And ay his sword tauld to their cost,
He was their deadlye fae.

High on a hill his castle stood,
With ha's and tow'rs a height,
And goodly chambers fair to se,
Where he lodged mony a knight.
His dame sae peerless anes and fair,
For chast and beauty deem'd,
Nae marrow had in all the land,
Save ELENOR the queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare,
All men of valour stout;
In bloody fight with sword in hand
Nine lost their lives bot do ibt:
Four yet remain, lang may they liv
To stand by liege and land;

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

Great love they bare to FAIRLY fair,
Their sister saft and dear,

Her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp,
And gowden glist her hair.
What waefu' wae her beauty bred'
Waefu' to young and auld,
Waefu' I trow to kyth and kin,
As story ever tauld.

The king of Norse in summer tyde,
Puff'd up with pow'r and might
Landed in fair Scotland the isle
With mony a hardy knight.
The tydings to our good Scots king
Came, as he sat at dine,

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

To horse, to horse, my royal liege,
Your faes stand on the strand,
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands.'

"Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,"

Our good king rose and cry'd, A trustier beast in a' the land

"Go little page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives on hill sae hie,

To draw his sword, the dread of faes,
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 frae harm."

Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks,
Sae did his dark-brown brow;

His looks grew keen, as they were wont
In dangers great to do;

He's ta'en a horn as green as glass,

And gi'en five sounds sae shill,

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

His sons in manly sport and glee,
Had past that summer's morn,
When low down in a grassy dale,
They heard their father's horn.

"That horn," quo' they, "ne'er sounds in peace,
We've other sport to bide."

And soon they hy'd them up the hill,

And soon were at his side.

Late, late the yestreen I ween'd in peace

To end my lengthened life,

My age might well excuse my arm

Frae manly feats of strife;

But now that Norse do's proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall,

It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute,

He fear'd to fight or fall.

Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows shoot sae leel,
That mony a comely countenance
They've turnd to deadly pale.
Brade Thomas take you but your lance,
You need nae weapons mair,

If you fight wi't as you did anes

'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.

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