"Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives on hill so 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 of 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 shrill
That trees in greenwood shook thereat,
Sae loud rang every hill.

His sons in manly sport and glee

Had passed that summer's morn,

When lo, 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 bide1."

And soon they hied them up the hill,

And soon were at his side.

'Late, late yestreen I weened in peace

To end my lengthened life;

My age might well excuse my arm

Frae manly feats of strife;

I attend.

I armour.

But now that Norse does proudly boast

Fair Scotland to enthrall,

It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute

He feared to fight or fall.

"Robin of Rothesay, bend thy bow,

Thy arrows shoot sae leal;
Mony a comely countenance
They've turned to deadly pale.
Braid Thomas, take ye but your lance-
You need nae weapons mair;
If you fight wi't as you did anes

'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.

'Malcolm, light of foot as stag

That runs in forest wild,

Get me my thousands three of men
Well bred to sword and shield.
Bring me my horse and harnisine1,
My blade of metal clear."

If faes but kenn'd the hand it bare
They soon had fled for fear.

"Fareweel, my dame sae peerless good!"
And took her by the hand;
"Fairer to me in age you seem
Than maids for beauty famed.
My youngest son shall here remain,
To guard these stately towers,
And shut the silver bolt that keeps

Sae fast your painted bowers."

And first she wet her comely cheeks
And then her bodice green,
Her silken chords of twirtle twist,

Well plet with silver sheen2;
And apron set with mony a dice3

Of needlewark sae rare,

Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess,
Save that of Fairly fair.

And he has ridden o'er muir and moss,

O'er hills and mony a glen,

When he came to a wounded knight

Making a heavy mane.

"Here maun I lie, here maun I die

By treachery's false guiles:

Witless I was that ere ga'e faith

To wicked Woman's smiles!"

"Sir Knight, gin you were in my power,
To lean on silken seat,

My lady's kindly care you'd prove,
Who ne'er kenn'd deadly hate.
Herself would watch you a' the day,

Her maids a' dead of night,

And Fairly fair your heart would cheer,
As she stands in your sight.

["Arise, young knight, and mount your steed,

Full lowers the shining day;

Choose frae my menzie5 whom ye please
To lead ye on the way."

I plaited.
2 fair, shining.
3 i.e. die, square.
(Modern word.)

4 must.

5 following.

1 hence.

2 comrades.

With smileless look and visage wan
The wounded knight replied,
"Kind chieftain, your intent pursue,
For here I maun abide.

"To me nae after day nor night
Can ere be sweet or fair;

But soon beneath some drooping tree
Cauld death shall end my care."
With him nae pleading might prevail :
Brave Hardyknute, to gain,

With fairest words and reason strang
Strave courteously in vain.]

Syne he has gane far hynd1 out o'er
Lord Chattan's land sae wide.
That lord a worthy wight was aye
When faes his courage 'sayed
Of Pictish race by mother's side,

When Picts ruled Caledon

Lord Chattan claimed the princely maid
When he saved Pictish crown.

[Now with his fierce and stalwart train
He reached a rising height
Where, braid encampit on the dale,

Norse army lay in sight.

"Yonder, my valiant sons and feres2,

Our raging reivers wait,

On the unconquered Scottish sward
To try with us their fate.

"Mak' orisons to him that saved

Our souls upon the rood,

Syne1 bravely show your veins are filled

With Caledonian blood.

Then forth he drew his trusty glaive,

While thousands all around,

Drawn frae their sheath, glanced in the sun,
And loud the bugles sound.

To join his king, adown the hill
In haste his march he made,

While, playing pibrochs, minstrels meet

Afore him stately strade.

"Thrice welcome, valiant stoup2 of war,

Thy nation's shield and pride!

Thy king nae reason has to fear

When thou art by his side."]

When bows were bent and darts were thrawn,

For thrang scarce could they flee;

The darts clove arrows as they met,

The arrows dart3 the tree.

Lang did they rage and fight fou fierce

With little skaith to man,

But bloody bloody was the field.

Ere that lang day was done.

The king of Scots, that sinle brooked 4

The war that looked like play,
Drew his braid sword and brake his bow,

Sin' bows seemed but delay.

I Then.

2 support.

3 struck.

4 seldom enjoyed.