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Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-brown steed,

And spurr'd him the Leader o'er;

But, though he rode with lightning speed,

He never saw them more.

Some said to hill, and some to glen, Their wond'rous course had been; But ne'er in haunts of living men

Again was Thomas seen.

NOTES.

PART I.

Note 1. Verse xvii.

-she pu'd an apple frae a tree, etc.

The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect.

APPENDIX.

The reader is here presented, from an old, and unfortunately an imperfect MS., with the undoubted original of Thomas the Rhymer's intrigue with the Queen of Faery. It will afford great amusement to those who would study the nature of traditional poetry, and the changes effected by oral tradition, to compare this ancient romance with the foregoing ballad. The same incidents are narrated, even the expression is often the same, yet the poems are as different in appearance, as if the older tale had been regularly and systematically modernized by a poet of the present day.

Incipit Prophesia Thome de Erseldoun.

In a lande as I was lent,

In the gryking of the day,

Ay alone as I went,

In Huntle bankys me for to play :

I saw the throstyl, and the jay,

Ye mawes movyde of her song,
Ye wodwale sange notes gay,
That al the wod about range.
In that longyng as I lay,
Undir netbe a dern tre,
I was war of a lady gay,

Come rydyng ouyr a fair le ;
Zogh I suld sitt to domysday,

With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certenly all hyr aray,

It beth neuyr discryuyd for me.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none,

As the son in somers day,

All abowte that lady shone;
Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone,
A semly syght it was to se,
Bryht with mony a precyous stone,
And compasyd all with crapste;
Stones of oryens gret plente,
Her hair about her hede it hang,
She rode ouer the farnyle.

A while she blew a while she sang,
Her girths of nobil silke they were,
Her boculs were of beryl stone,
Sadyll and brydill war --:
With sylk and sendel about bedone,
Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne,
And her croper of the arase,

Her brydil was of gold fyne,

On euery syde forsothe hong bells thre, Her brydil reynes

A semly syzt

Crop and patyrel

In every joynt

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She led thre grew hounds in a leash,
And ratches cowpled by her ran;
She bar an horn about her halse,
And undyr her gyrdil meny flene.
Thomas lay and sa- - -

In the bankes of --

He sayd, yonder is Mary of Might,

That bar the child that died for me,

Certes bot I may speeke with that lady bright,

Myd my bert will breke in three ;

I schal me hye with all my might

Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tree.
Thomas rathly up he rase,
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it be sothe the story says,
He met her euyn at Eldyn Tree.
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,
And sayd, lovely lady, thou rue on me,
Queen of Heaven as you well may be;
But I am a lady of another countrie,
If I be pareld most of prise,
I ride after the wild fee,
My ratches rinnen at my devys.
If thou be pareld most of prise,
And rides a lady in strang foly,
Lovely lady, as thou art wise,
Giue you me leue to lyge ye by.
Do way, Thomas, that were foly,
I pray ye, Thomas, late me be,
That sin will fordo all my bewtie :
Lovely ladye, rewe on me,
And euer more I shall with ye dwell,
Here my trowth I plyght to thee,
Where you beleues in heuyn or hell.
Thomas, and you myght lyge me by,
Undir nethe this
grene wode
Thou would tell full hastely,
That thou had layn by a lady gay.
Lady, I mote lyg by the,
Undir nethe the grene wode tre,
For all the gold in chrystenty,
Suld you neuer be wryede for me.
Man on molde you will me marre,
And yet bot you may haf you will,

spray,

Trow you well, Thomas, you cheuyst ye warre; For all my bewtie wilt you spill.

Down lyghtyd that lady bryzt,

Undir nethe the grene wode spray,

And as ye story sayth full ryzt,

Seuyn tymes by her he lay.

She seyd, man, you lyste thi play,

What berde in bouyr may dele with thee,

That maries me all this long day;

I pray ye, Thomas, lat me be.

Thomas stode up in the stede,

And behelde the lady gay,

Her heyre hang downe about hyr hede,
The tone was black, the other

gray,

Her eyn semyt onte before was gray,

Her gay clethyng was all away,
That he before had sene in that stede;
Her body as blo as ony bede.
Thomas sighede, and sayd, allas,
Me thynke this a dullfull syght,
That thou art fadyd in the face,
Before you shone as son so bryzt.
Take thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,

At gresse, and at euery tre,

This twelvmonth sall you with me gone, Medyl erth you sall not se,

Alas, he seyd, ful wo is me,

I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Jesu, my sole tak to ye,

Whedir so euyr my body sall fare.
She rode furth with all her myzt,
Undir nethe the derne lee,

It was derke as at midnyzt,
And euyr in water unto the kne;
Through the space of days thre,
He herde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, ful wo is me,
Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede him tyte,
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther were rype,
The date and the damese,
The figge and als fylbert tre;

The nyghtyngale bredying in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,

The throstylcok sang wold bafe no rest.

He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand
As man for faute that was faynt;
She seyd, Thomas, lat al stand,
Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sche said, Thomas, I the byzt,
To lay thi hede upon my kne,
And thou shalt see fayrer sight,
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre.
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fair way,
That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn ?
Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay,

Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne.
Sees thon, Thomas, yone secund way,
That lygges lawe undir the ryse?
Streight is the way, sothly to say,
To the joyes of Paradyce.

Sees thou, Thomas, yone thyrd way,
That lygges ouyr yone how?
Wide is the way, sothly to say,
To the brynyng fyres of hell.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castells,
That standes ouyr yone fayr hill?
Of town and tower it beereth the belle,
In middell earth is non like theretill.
Whan thou comyst in yon castell gaye
I pray thu curteis man to be;
What so any man to you say,
Loke thu answer non but me.
My lord is served at yche messe,
With xxx kniztes feir and fre;

I sall say syttyng on the dese,

I toke thy speeche beyonde the le.

Thomas stode as still as stone,

And beheld that ladye gaye;

Than was sche fayr and ryche anone,

And also ryal on hir palfreye.

The grewhoundes had fylde them on the dere,

The ratches coupled, by my fay,

She blewe her horn Thomas to chere,

To the castle she went her way.

The lady into the hall went,

Thomas folowyd at her hand;

Thar kept hyr mony a lady gent,

With curtasy and lawe.

Harp and fedyl both he fande,

The getern and the sawtry,

Lut and rybib ther gon gang,
Thair was al maner of mynstralsy.
The most fertly that Thomas thoght,

When he com emyddes the flore,
Fourty hertes to quarry were broght,
That had been befor both long and store.
Lymors lay lappyng blode,

And kokes standing with dressyng knife,
And dressyd dere as thai wer wode,
And rewell was thair wonder.

Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre,
All that leue long day.

Ladyes that were gret of gre,

Sat and sang of rych aray.

Thomas sawe much more in that place,

Than I can descryve,

Till on a day alas, alas,

My lovelye ladye sayd to me,

Busk ye, Thomas, you must agayn,
Here you may no longer be:

Hy then zerne that you were at hame,

1 sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre. Thomas answerd with heuy cher,

And sayd, lowely ladye, lat ma be,

For I say ye certenly here

Haf I be bot the space of dayes three.

Sothly, Thomas, as I telle ye,

You hath been here thre yeres,
And here you may no longer be;
And I sal tele ye a skele,

To-morrowe of helle ye foule fende
Amang our folke shall chuse his fee;
For you art a larg man and an hende,
Trowe you wele he will chuse thee.
Fore all the golde that may be,
Sal you not be betrayed for me,
And thairfor sal you heus wend.
She broght him euyn to Eldyn tre,
Under nethe the grene wode spray,
In Huntle bankes was fayr to be,
Ther breddes syng both nyat and day.
Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray,
There hathe my facon:

Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way.

[The elfin queen, after restoring Thomas to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies, in which we distinguish references to the events and personages of the Scottish wars of Edward III. The battles of Dupplin and Halidon are mentioned, and also Black Agnes, Countess of Dunbar. There is a copy of this poem in the Museum in the Cathedral of Lincoln, another in the collection of Peterborough, but unfortunately they are all in an imperfect state. Mr Jamieson, in his curious collection of Scottish Ballads and Songs, has an entire copy of this ancient poem, with all the collations. The lacunæ of the former edition have been supplied from his copy.]

PART III.

Note 1. Verse i.

And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon.

Ruberslaw and Dunyon are two high hills above Jed

burgh.

Note 2. Verse ii.

Then all by bonnie Coldingknow.

An ancient tower near Ercildoun, belonging to a family of the name of Home. One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus:

Vengeance, vengeance! when and where ?

On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair. The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody, called the Broom o' the Cowdenknows.

Note 3, Verse iii.

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,

To distant Torwoodlee.

Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirk

shire.

Note 4. Verse x.

How courteous Gawaine met the wound.

See in the Fabliaux of Monsieur le Grand, elegantly translated by the late Gregory Way, Esq., the tale of the Knight and the Sword.

Note 5. Verse xxviii.

As white as snow, on Fairnalie.

An ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirkshire. In a popular edition of the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, the fairy queen thus addresses him:

Gin ye wad meet wi' me again,

Gang to the bonnie banks of Fairnalie.

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The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood,
When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain,

Clouding that morn which threats the heath-cock's brood;

Of such, in summer's drought, the anglers plain,
Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain ;
But, more than all, the discontented fair,

Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, restrain
From county-ball, or race occurring rare,

'Tis thus my malady I well may bear,
Albeit out-stretch'd, like Pope's own Paridel,
Upon the rack of a too-easy chair;

And find, to cheat the time, a powerful spell
In old romaunts of errantry that tell,

Or later legends of the Fairy-folk,

Or oriental tale of Afrite fell,

Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-wing'd Roc, Though taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock.

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes unsought,
Arrange themselves in some romantic lay;
The which, as things unfitting graver thought,
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser day.-
These few survive-and proudly let me say,

Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his frown;
They well
may serve to while an hour away,
Nor does the volume ask for more renown,

Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down.

While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare. HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

Ennui!-or, as our mothers call'd thee, Spleen!

To thee we owe full many a rare device;Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween, The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling dice, The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack nice: The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst claim, Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice

(Murders disguised by philosophic name),

CANTO I.

I.

LIST to the valorous deeds that were done

By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son ! Count Witikind came of a regal strain,

And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game. And roved with his Norsemen the land and the main.

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance
Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote!
Plays, poems, novels, never read but once;-

But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote,
That bears thy name, and is thine antidote;

And not of such the strain my Thomson sung, Delicious dreams inspiring by his note,

What time to Indolence his harp he strung: Oh! might my lay be rank'd that happier list among!

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assail.
For me, I love my study-fire to trim,
And con right vacantly some idle tale,
Displaying on the couch each listless limb,
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow dim,
And doubtful slumber half supplies the theme;
While antique shapes of knight and giant grim,
Damsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam,
And the romancer's tale becomes the reader's dream.

Woe to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast:
When he hoisted his standard black,
Before him was battle, behind him wrack,
And he burn'd the churches, that heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again.

II.

On Erin's shores was his outrage known,
The winds of France had his banners blown;

Little was there to plunder, yet still

His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill;

But upon merry England's coast

More frequent he sail'd, for he won the most.
So wide and so far his ravage they knew,

If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin blue,
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,

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He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.
He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.
Three earls came against him with all their train,-
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain:
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,
And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.
But the Saxon king was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought;

And the count took upon him the peaceable style
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.

IV.

Time will rust the sharpest sword,
Time will consume the strongest cord;
That which moulders hemp and steel
Mortal arm and nerve must feel.

Of the Danish band, whom Count Witikind led,
Mauy wax'd aged, and many were dead;
Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;
He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,
And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode;
As he grew feebler his wildness ceased,
He made himself peace with prelate and priest,
Made his peace, aud, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said;
Saint Cuthbert's bishop was holy and grave,
Wise and good was the counsel he gave.

V.

<< Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
Priest didst thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;

Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite,
Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:
O! while life and space are given,
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven!»
That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed;
« Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne,
My faith I will leave and I'll cleave unto thine. >>

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Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm;
He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine,
With patience unwonted at rites divine;
He abjured the gods of heathen race,
And he bent his head at the font of grace;

But such was the griesly old proselyte's look,

That the priest who baptized him grew pale and shook; And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood,

<< Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!»

VII.

Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied him when ended the rite;
The prelate in honour will with him ride,
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side,
Banners and banderols danced in the wind,
Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind;
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne;
And full in front did that fortress lower,

In darksome strength with its buttress and tower;
At the castle-gate was young Harold there,
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.

VIII.

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of mood;
Rude he was and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair, nor rich array,

Such as should grace that festal day:

His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced,
Uncover'd his head, and his sandal unlaced:
His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,
And his eyes glanced through them a swarthy glow:
A Danish club in his hand he bore,

The spikes were clotted with recent gore;

At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf-cubs twain,
In the dangerous chase that morning slain.
Rude was the greeting his father he made,
None to the bishop,-while thus he said:

IX.

« What priest-led bypocrite art thou,
With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,

Who won his bride by the axe and sword;
From the shrine of St Peter the chalice who tore,
And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor;
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst the skull,
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain Bull?
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to war-gods belong,
With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the strong,
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk,

Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear?
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
O! out upon thine endless shame!

Each scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!»-

X.

Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look,
His faltering voice with fury shook ;-
« Hear me, Harold, of harden'd heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert.

Thine outrage insane I command thee to cease,
Fear my wrath and remain at peace :-
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid,
Richly the church has a recompense made,
And the truth of her doctrines I prove with my
But reckoning to none of my actions I owe,
And least to my son such accounting will show.
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth,

blade.

Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason or ruth?
Hence! to the wolf and the bear in her den ;
These are thy mates, and not rational men.»>-

XI.

Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied,

And the tempest within, having ceased its wild rout, Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd without.

XIV.

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone,

Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermengarde's son;
In the train of Lord Harold the page was the first,
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde nursed;
And grieved was young Gunnar his master should

roam,

Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from home.
He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of rain,
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole and pane;
«And oh !» said the page, « on the shelterless wold
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and cold!
What though he was stubborn, and wayward, and wild,
He endured me because I was Ermengarde's child,
And often from dawu till the set of the sun,

In the chase, by his stirrup, unchidden I run :

I would I were older, and knighthood could bear,

<«< We must honour our sires, if we fear when they I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne and the Wear; For my mother's command with her last parting

For me,

chide.

I am yet what thy lessons have made,

I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a blade;

An infant, was taught to clap hands and to shout,

From the roofs of the tower when the flame had broke

out;

In the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip,
And tinge with its purple my cheek and my lip.-
'T is thou know'st not truth, that has barter'd in eld,
For a price, the brave faith that thine ancestors held.
When this wolf » - and the carcass he flung on the
plain-

<< Shall awake and give food to her nurslings again,
The face of his father will Harold review;
Till then, aged heathen, young Christian, adieu!»>

XII.

Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast,
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd.
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung,

Laid his hand on the pommel and into it sprung;
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan,
When the holy sign on the earth was thrown!
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand,
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand;

<< Let him pass free!-Heaven knows its hour,-
But he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep, and penance bear,

Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the Wear.»
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father is gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son.

XIII.

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall,
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure

The scandal which time and instruction might cure:
It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to restrain,
In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd Dane.
The mead flow'd around, and the ale was drain'd dry,
Wild was the laughter, the song, and the
cry;
With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention gave o'er,
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the hall floor;

breath,

Bade me follow her nursling in life and to death.

XV.

<< It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain,
As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from his chain!
Accursed by the church, and expell'd by his sire,
Nor Christiau nor Dane give him shelter or fire,
And this tempest what mortal may houseless endure?
Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor!
Whate'er comes of Gunnar he tarries not here.>>
He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to his spear,
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd by his tread,
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the dead:
Ungrateful and bestial!» his anger broke forth,

"

«< To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of the North! And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty in store, Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and ore.»——

XVI.

Then heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaulx's purse :
Saint Meneholt's abbot next morning has miss'd
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to the wrist :
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has ta'en
(Well drench'd on that eve was cld Hildebrand's brain).
To the stable-yard he made his way,
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,
And right on his way to the moorland has pass'd.
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;

So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd,

There answer'd a steed that was bound beside,

And the red flash of lightning show'd there where lay Ilis master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on the clay.

XVII.

Up he started, and thunder'd out, « Stand!»-
And raised the club in his deadly hand.
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told,
Show'd the palfrey and proffer'd the gold.
<<Back, back, and home, thou simple boy!
Thou canst not share my grief or joy:

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