"And he black-mail maun either hae,
Or we maun fecht him here;

But he is nae the first king,

Will Danmarck win this year."

Syne till King Tidrich's messager
Up spak that kemp sae stout:
"Come the Berners but till Danmarck in,
Uneath they'll a' win out."

Sae glad was he then, Ulf of Airn,
When he that tidings fand;

Sae leugh he, Hero Hogen;

And they green'd the stour to stand.

It was Vidrich Verlandsön,

He grew in mood sae fain;

And up and spak he, young Child Orme,
"We'll ride the Berners foregain."

"The foremaist on the bent I'se be!"
That said Sir Iver Blae;

"Forsuith I'se nae the hindmaist be!"
Answer'd Sir Kulden Gray.

King Olger and Stark Tiderich,

They met upon the muir;
They laid on load in furious mood,

And made a fearfu' stour.

They fought ae day; for three they fought;*
Neither could win the gree;

The manfu' Danes their chieftain ware,
Nae ane will flinch or flee.

The bluid ran bullering in burns

Bedown baith hill and dale;

Dane-gelt the Berners now maun pay,

That ween'd to get black-mail.

* This is a sort of current Danish ballad expression, which commonly occurs in the description of a severe conflict of any kind.

The yowther drifted sae high i' the sky;
The sun worth a' sae red:*
Great pity was it there to see
Sae mony stalwart dead!†

There lay the steed; here lay the man;
Gude friends that day did twin:
They leuch na a' to the feast that cam
Whan the het bluid-bath was done.

High Bermeris bethought him than,
All sadly as they lay:

"There scarce live a hunder o' our men ;
How should we win the day?"

Then took Tiderich till his legs,
And sindle luikit back;

Sverting forgat to say gude-night;
And the gait till Bern they tak.

Tidrich he turn'd him right about,
And high in the lift luik'd he:
"To Bern I trow is our safest gait;
Here fa we scoug nor lee!"

Syne stay'd him Vidrich Verlandsön,
All under a green know;

"Ye've little to ruse ye o' your

The Danish kemps to cow!"

raid

That tyde they drew frae Bernland out,

Acht thousand strang were they:

And back to Bern but only five

And fifty took their way.

This sublime picture of the sun looking dark and red over the field of battle, through the clouds formed by the vapours which arose from the blood and sweat of the combatants, will call to the mind the admirable stanza in Campbell's Ode on the Battle of the Linden Hills:

""Tis morn; but scare yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy."

"And many a gallant gentleman

Lay gasping on the ground."-CHEVY CHACE.

Ribolt and Guldborg.

["This ballad, though not referred to in the Introductory Note to The Child of Elle,' is inserted here as being in all probability the original, as well of that ballad as of the ballad of Erlington.' It is taken from Illustrations of Northern Antiquities,' &c.; Ed. 1814, and is a translation by Mr. Jamieson from the same Danish collection, the Kampe Viser, as the preceding piece.]

RIBOLT was the son of an Erle gude,
(Sae be that ye are willing ;)
Guldborg he lang in secret lo'ed.
(There's a hue and a cry for them.

Whan she was a bairn he lo'ed her sair,
And ay as she grew he lo'ed her the mair.

'Guldborg, will ye plight your troth to me,
And I'll till a better land bring thee.

Till a better land I will thee bear,
Where there never comes or dule or care.

I will bring thee intill an öe
Where thou sall live and nagate die?'

'It's till nae land can ye me bear

Where there never comes or dule or care;

Nor me can ye bring to sic an öe,
For to God I owe that I should die!"

'There leeks are the only grass that springs,
And the gowk is the only bird that sings;

There a' the water that rins is wine:
Ye well may trow this tale o' mine.'

O how sall I frae the castle win,
Sae fiel they watch me out and in?

I'm watcht by my father, I'm watcht by my mither,
I'm watcht by my sister, I'm watcht by my brither;

My bridegroom watches wherever I ga,
And that watch fears me maist ava!'

And gin a' your kin were watching ye,
Ye maun bide by what ye hecht to me.

And ye maun put on my brynie blae;
My gilded helmet ye sall hae;

My gude brand belted by your side;
Sae unlike a lady ye will ride:

Wi' gouden spur at your heel sae braw,
Ye may ride thro' the mids o' your kindred a'.
His mantel blue he has o'er her thrown,
And his ambler grey he has set her upon.
As o'er the muir in fere they ride,
They met a rich Earl that till them said:
O hear ye, Ribolt, dear compere mine,
Where gat ye that page sae fair and fine?'
"O it is nane but my youngest brither,
And I gat him frae nane but my mither.'

'In vain ye frae me the truth wad heal:
Guldborg, Guldborg, I ken ye well.

Your red scarlet ye well may len;
But your rosy cheeks full well I ken.

I' your father's castell I did sair,
And I ken you well by your yellow hair.

By your claiths and your shoon I ken ye ill,
But I ken the knight ye your troth gae till;

And the Brok I ken, that has gotten your han'
Afore baith priest and laic man.'

He's taen the goud bracelet frae his hand,
And on the Earlis arm it band:

"Whaever ye meet, or wharever ye gae,
Ye naething o' me maun to naeman say.'

The Earl he has ridden to Kallö-house,
Whare, merrily drinking, the kemps carouse
Whan Sir Truid's castell within cam he,
Sir Truid at the dear he was birling free.

Here sit ye, Sir Truid, drinking mead and wine, Wi' your bride rides Ribolt roundly hyne.

Syne Truid o'er the castell loud can ca': 'Swyth on wi' your brynies, my merry men a'!'

They scantly had ridden a mile but four,
Guldborg she lookit her shoulder o'er:

'O yonder see I my father's steed,
And I see the knight that I hae wed.'

'Light down, Guldborg, my lady dear,
And hald our steeds by the renyies here.

And e'en sae be that ye see me fa',
Be sure that ye never upon me ca';

And e'en sae be that ye see me bleed,
Be sure that ye name na me till dead.'
Ribolt did on his brynie blae,
Guldborg she claspt it, the sooth to say.

In the firsten shock o' that bargain
Sir Truid and her father dear he's slain.

I' the nexten shock he hew'd down there
Her twa brethren wi' their gouden hair.

'Hald, hald, my Ribolt, dearest mine,
Now belt my brand, for it's mair nor time.

My youngest brither ye spare, O spare
To my mither the dowy news to bear.

To tell o' the dead in this sad stour-
O wae that ever she dochter bure!'

Whan Ribolt's name she named that stound,
'Twas then that he gat his deadly wound.

Ribolt he has belted his brand by his side: 'Ye come now, Guldborg, and we will ride.' As on to the Rosen wood they rade, The never a word till other they said. O hear ye now, Ribolt, my love, tell me, Why are ye nae blyth as ye wont to be?" '0

my life blood it rins fast and free, And wae is my heart, as it well may be!