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, 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, 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, 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, They roused the deer from Caddenhead, The feast was spread in Ercildoune, And ladies laced in pall. Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dine, 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 Those numbers to prolong. Yet fragments of the lofty strain 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, Ensenzie-War-cry, or gathering-word. Quaighs-Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together. › See introduction to this Ballad. On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, 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 hart and hind pace side by side, To Learmont's tower a message sped, First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; The elfin harp his neck around, Its dying accents rung. Then forth he went; yet turned him oft On the gray tower, in lustre soft, And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, << 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! The hart and hind approach'd the place, 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, It beth neuyr discryayd for me. As the son in somers day, All abowte that lady shone; A semly syght it was to se, Bryht with mony a precyous stone, A while she blew a while she sang, She led thre grew hounds in a leash, She bar an horn about her halse, 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 And euer more I shall with ye dwell, 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, 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; At gresse, and at euery tre, This twelvmonth sall you with me gone, 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, It was derke as at midnyzt, The figge and als fylbert tre; The uyghtyngale bredying in her neste, The throstylook sang wold hafe no rest. Sees thou, Thomas, yone thyrd way, Of town and tower it beereth the belle, I toke thy speeche beyonde the le. 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, Harp and fedyl both he fande, The getern and the sawtry, Thair was al maner of mynstralsy. And kokes standing with dressyng knife, Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre, 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. For I say ye certenly here Haf I be hot the space of dayes three. You hath been here thre yeres, Sal you not be betrayed for me, Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way. [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.] Harold the Dauntless: A POEM. IN SIX CANTOS. INTRODUCTION. THERE is a mood of mind we all have known, • 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, And find, to cheat the time, a powerful spell 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? 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! Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance What time to Indolence his harp he strung: Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assail. For me, And con right vacantly some idle tale, 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 Count Witikind came of a regal strain, II. On Erin's shores was his outrage known, 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. If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin blue, |