XVII. HARDYKNUTE. A SCOTTISH FRAGMENT. As this fine morsel of heroic poetry hath generally past for ancient, it is here thrown to the end of our earliest pieces; that such as doubt of its age, may the better compare it with other pieces of genuine antiquity. For after all, there is more than reason to suspect, that it owes most of its beauties (if not its whole existence) to the pen of a lady, within the present century. The following particulars may be depended on. Mrs. Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket (aunt to the late Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, in Scotland, who was killed in America, along with General Bradock, in 1755), pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. Being desired to shew an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the two last beginning with 'There's nae light,' &c. which were not in the copy that was first printed. The late Lord President Forbes, and Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Minto (late Lord Justice Clerk for Scotland) who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expence of publishing the first edition in folio, 1719. This account was transmitted from Scotland by Sir David Dalrymple, the late Lord Hailes, who yet was of opinion, that part of the ballad may be ancient; but retouched and much enlarged by the lady abovementioned. Indeed he had been informed, that the late William Thompson, the Scottish musician, who published the 'Orpheus Caledonius,' 1733, 2 vols. 8vo. declared he had heard fragments of it repeated in his infancy, before Mrs. Wardlaw's copy was heard of. The poem is here printed from the original edition, as it was prepared for the press with the additional improvements. (See below, at the end of the ballad.') I. STATELY stept he east the wa', And stately stept he west, Full seventy years he now had seen, He was their deadlye fae. 1 This ballad refers to the battle of Largs, fought between the Scotch and the Norwegians, on 2d October 1263. Fairly Castle, the residence of Hardyknute, stands three miles south of the battle-field. It is a single square tower, by the side of a wild stream, tumbling over a rock into a deep ravine.-ED. II. High on a hill his castle stood, Save ELENOR the queen. III. Full thirteen sons to him she bare, In bloody fight with sword in hand Nine lost their lives bot doubt: Four yet remain, lang may they live High was their fame, high was their might, IV. 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. V. The king of Norse in summer tyde, Puff'd up with pow'r and might, 25 30 45 Landed in fair Scotland the isle With mony a hardy knight. Drinking the blood-red wine. VI. To horse, to horse, my royal liege, 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 VII. 'Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, To draw his sword, the dread of faes, The little page flew swift as dart Flung by his master's arm, Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute, VIII. Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, 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, 40 35 That trees in green wood shook thereat, IX. His sons in manly sport and glee, "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. X. 'Late, late 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. XI. Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, That mony a comely countenance They've turnd to deadly pale. 65 70 75 80 Brade Thomas, take you but your lance, 85 If you fight wi't as you did anes 'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. XII. And Malcolm, light of foot as stag Bring me my horse and harnisine My blade of mettal clear. If faes but ken'd the hand it bare, XIII. Farewell my dame sae peerless good, Than maids for beauty fam'd. XIV. 90 95 100 And first she wet her comely cheiks, 105 And then her boddice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist, Well plett with silver sheen; And apron set with mony a dice Of needle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, Save that of Fairly fair. XV. And he has ridden o'er muir and moss, O'er hills and mony a glen, 110 |