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A French queen shall bear the son, Shall rule all Britain to the sea: He of the Bruce's blood shall come, As near as in the ninth degree.

The waters worship shall his race, Likewise the waves of the farthest sea; For they shall ride ower ocean wide,

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree.>>

PART III.

THOMAS THE RHYMER was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated romance of Sir Tristrem. Of this once admired poem only one copy is known to exist, which is in the Advocates' Library. The author, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work, which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoun, is at least the -earliest specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already been given to the world in Mr Ellis's Specimens of Ancient Poetry, vol. 1, p. 165, III, p. 410; a work, to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged; the former, for the preservation of the best selected examples of their poetical taste; and the latter, for a history of the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, that, so great was the reputation of the romance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought capable of reciting it after the manner of the author;-a circumstance alluded to by Robert de Brune, the annalist:

I see in song, in sedgeyng tale,
Of Erceldoun, and of kendale.

Now thame says as they thame wroght,

And in thare saying it sem s nocht,

That thou may here in Sir Tristrem,

Over gestes it has the steme,

Over all that is or was;

If men it said as made Thomas, etc.

It appears, from a very curious MS. of the thirteenth century, penes Mr Douce of London, containing a French metrical romance of Sir Tristrem, that the work of our Thomas the Rhymer was known, and referred to, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bretagne. Having arrived at a part of the romance, where reciters were wont to differ in the mode of telling the story, the French bard expressly cites the authority of the of poet

Ercildoun:

Plusurs de nos granter ne volent,
Co que del naim dire se solent,
Ki femme Kaberdin dut aimer,
Li naim redut Tristram narrer,
E entusché par grant engin,
Quant it afole Kaherdin;
Pur cest plaie e pur cest mal,
Enveiad Tristran Guvernal,
En Engleterre pur Ysolt
THOMAS ico granter ne volt,
Et si volt par raisun mostrer,
Qu'ico ne put pas esteer, etc.

The tale of Sir Tristrem, as narrated in the Edinburgh MS., is totally different from the voluminous romance

in prose, originally compiled on the same subject by Rusticien de Puise, and analysed by M. de Tressan; but agrees in every essential particular with the metrical performance just quoted, which is a work of much higher antiquity.

PART III.-MODERN.

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon (1)
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonnie Coldingknow, (2)

Pitch'd palliouns took their room, And crested helms, and spears a rowe, Glanced gaily through the broom.

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie;

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee. (3)

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of great renown,

And ladies laced in pall.

Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dine,
The music nor the tale,
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,

Nor mantling quaighs of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, When as the feast was done;

(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, The elfin harp he won.)

Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue,

And harpers for envy pale;

And armed lords lean'd on their swords,

And hearken'd to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet pour'd along;
No after bard might e'er avail3

Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
"Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's Table Round:

The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound, (4)

And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,

The notes melodious swell;

Was none excell'd, in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

Ensenzie-War-cry, or gathering-word.

Quaighs-Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together.

› See introduction to this Ballad.

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On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,
The mists of evening close;
In camp, in castle, or in bower,
Each warrior sought repose.

Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent,

Dream'd o'er the woful tale; When footsteps light, across the bent, The warrior's ears assail.

He starts, he wakes :—« What, Richard, ho! Arise, my page, arise!

What venturous wight, at dead of night, Dare step where Douglas lies!»

Then forth they rush'd: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth sight they see-

A hart and hind pace side by side,
As white as snow on Fairnalie. (5)
Beneath the moon, with gesture proud,
They stately move and slow;
Nor scare they at the gathering crowd,
Who marvel as they go.

To Learmont's tower a message sped,
As fast as page might run;
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his clothes did on.

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red;
Never a word he spake but three;—
« My sand is run ; my thread is spun ;
This sign regardeth me.»>

The elfin harp his neck around,
In minstrel guise, he hung;
And on the wind, in doleful sound,

Its dying accents rung.

Then forth he went; yet turned him oft
To view his ancient hall;

On the gray tower, in lustre soft,
The autumn moon-beams fall.

And Leader's waves, like silver sheen,
Danced shimmering in the ray:
In deepening mass, at distance seen,
Broad Soltra's mountains lay.

<< Farewell, my father's ancient tower! A long farewell,» said he :

«The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, Thou never more shalt be.

«To Learmont's name no foot of earth Shall here again belong, And on thy hospitable hearth

The hare shall leave her young.

« Adieu! adieu!» again he cried, All as he turned him roun'

« Farewell to Leader's silver tide!
Farewell to Ercildoune!»

The hart and hind approach'd the place,
As lingering yet he stood;
And there, before Lord Douglas' face.

With them he cross'd the flood.

Selcouth-Wond'rous.

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 oayr a fair le;
Zogh I said sitt to domysday,
With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certenly all hyr aray,

It beth neuyr discryayd 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 bair 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 hoculs were of beryl stone,
Sadyll and brydill war - -:
With sylk and sendel about bedone,
Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne,

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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 hert 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 yon beleues in heuyn or hell.
Thomas, and you myght lyge me by,
Undir nethe this grene wode spray,
Thou would tell full bastely,
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 half you will,

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 be 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 berde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, ful wo is me,
Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede bim 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 uyghtyngale bredying in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,

The throstylook sang wold hafe 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 denyl wil the ataynt.
Sche said, Thomas, I the hyzt,
To lay thi hode 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 heayn for ay,
Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne.
Sees thou, 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 gay.
I pray thu curteis man to be;
What so any man to you say,
Soke thu answer non but me.
My lord is servyd at y he 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 bad fylde them on the dere,

The ratches coupled, by my fay,

She blowe her horn Thomas to chero,

To the castle she went her way.

The lady into the hall went,
Thomas folowyd at her hand;
Thar kept byr 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:

By then zerne that you were at hame,

I sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre.
Thomas answerd with heay cher,
And sayd, lowely ladye, lat ma be,

For I say ye certenly here

Haf I be hot 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 bends,
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 hens wend.
She broght him euyn to Eldyn tre,
Under nethe the grene wode spray,
In Hantle lankes was fayr to be,
Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day.
Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray,
There hathe my facon:

Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way.

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[The elfin queen, after restoring Thomas to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies, in which we distiaguish references to the events and personages of the Scottish wars of Edward III. The battles of Duppia and Halidon are mentioned, and also Black Agas, Countess cf 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.]

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Harold the Dauntless:

A POEM.

IN SIX CANTOS.

INTRODUCTION.

THERE is a mood of mind we all have known,
On drowsy eve, or dark and louring day,
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly tone,
And nought can chase the lingering hours away.

• Dalil on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling ray,

And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in vain,'

| Obscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay, Nor dare we of our listless load complain,

T is thus my malady I well may bear,
Albeit outstretch'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.

For who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell of Oft at such season, too, will rhymes unsought,

pain?

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Whom father stern,

and sterner aunt, restrain

From county-ball, or race occurring rare,

While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.

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,
Betort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice
(Murders disguised by philosophic name),
And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game.

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.
I love iny study-fire to trim,

For

me,

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.

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.

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

CANTO I. J.

LIST to the valorous deeds that were done
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikind's son !

Count Witikind came of a regal strain,
And roved with his Norsemen the land and the main.
Woe to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,
| Rape of maiden, and slaughter of pricest,
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

Ilis 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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