In thraws of death, with walowit che
All panting on the plain,

The fainting corps of warriours lay,
Ne're to arise again;

Ne're to return to native land,

Nae mair with blithsome sounds To boast the glories of the day, And shaw their shining wounds.

On Norways coast the widowit dame
May wash the rocks with tears,
May lang luik ow'r the shipless seas
Befor her mate appears.

Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain
Thy lord lyes in the clay;

The valiant Scots nae revers thole
To carry life away.

Here on a lee, where stands a cross

Set up for monument,

Thousands fu' fierce that summer's day

Fill'd keen war's black intent.

Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute,
Let Norse the name ay dread,

Ay how he faught, aft how he spar'd,
Shall latest ages read.

Now loud and chill blew th' westlin wind,
Sair beat the heavy shower,

Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute
Wan near his stately tower.
His tow'r that us'd wi' torches blaze
To shine sae far at night,

Seem'd now as black as mourning weed,

Nae marvel sair he sigh'd.

"There's nae light in my lady's bower,
There's nae light in my ha';

Nae blink shines round my FAIRLY fair,
Nor ward stands on my wa';

What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say ;"—
Nae answer fitts their dread.

"Stand back, my sons, I'le be your guide;"

"As fast I've sped owre Scotlands faes,”-
There ceas'd his brag of weir,

Sair sham'd to mind ought but his dame,
And maiden FAIRLY fair.

Black fear he felt, but what to fear
He wist nae yet; wi' dread

Sair shook his body, sair his limbs,
And a' the warrior fled.

[In this ballad as printed in a work entitled, Scottish Tragic Ballads,' London, 1781, in which, to use the Editor's own words, the mutilated Fragment of Hardyknute was given in its original perfection,' the latter half of stanza 18 ran thus:

Still him to win strave Hardyknute,

Nor strave he lang in vain ;

Short pleiding eithly micht prevale
Him to his lure to gain.'

And between this stanza and that which in the original edition, and in our copy, stands next, was inserted the following:

I will return wi' speid to bide

Your plaint and mend your wae:

But private grudge maun neir be quelled,
Before our countries fae.

Mordac, thy eild may best be spaird
The fields of stryfe fraemang;
Convey Sir Knicht to my abode,

And meise his egre pang.'

To which was appended this note. This stanza is now first printed. It is surprising its omission was not marked in the fragment formerly published, as without it the circumstance of the knight's complaint is altogether foreign and vague. The loss was attempted to be glossed over by many variations of the preceding four lines; but the defect was palpable to the most inattentive reader.' Be this as it may, the stanza was not found in the original edition, nor has it been adopted in any subsequent one; and the accomplished Editor of the work in which it first appeared, was in all probability its author. It seemed necessary, however, to give it and the alteration of the preceding stanza here, as without them the 'Second Part' is unintelligible.]

The king of France that morning fair
He would a hunting ride;
To Artois forest prancing forth
In all his princelye pride.

To grace his sports a courtly train
Of gallant peers attend ;

And with their loud and cheerful cryes
The hills and valleys rend.

Through the deep forest swift they pass,
Through woods and thickets wild;
When down within a lonely dell
They found a new-born child;

All in a scarlet kercher lay'd

Of silk so fine and thin;

A golden mantle wrapt him round,
Pinn'd with a silver pin.

The sudden sight surpriz'd them all;
The courtiers gather'd round;
They look, they call, the mother seek;
No mother could be found.

At length the king himself drew near,
And as he gazing stands,

The pretty babe look'd up and smil'd,
And stretch'd his little hands.

Now, by the rood, king Pepin says,
This child is passing fair;
I wot he is of gentle blood;
Perhaps some prince's heir.

Goe bear him home unto my cour
With all the care ye may :

Let him be christen'd Valentine,
In honour of this day:

And look me out some cunning nurse;
Well nurtur'd let him bee;

Nor ought be wanting that becomes

A bairn of high degree.

They look'd him out a cunning nurse;
And nurtur'd well was hee;

Nor ought was wanting that became

Thus grewe the little Valentine,
Belov'd of king and peers;
And shew'd in all he spake or did
A wit beyond his years.

But chief in gallant feates of arms
He did himself advance,
That ere he grewe to man's estate
He had no peere in France.

And now the early downe began
To shade his youthful chin;
When Valentine was dubb'd a knight,
That he might glory win.

A boon, a boon, my gracious liege,
I beg a boon of thee!

The first adventure that befalls,
May be reserv'd for mee.

The first adventure shall be thine;
The king did smiling say.

Nor many days, when lo! there came
Three palmers clad in graye.

Help, gracious lord, they weeping say'd;
And knelt, as it was meet:
From Artoys forest we be come,
With weak and wearye feet.

Within those deep and dreary woods
There wends a savage boy;

Whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield
Thy subjects dire annoy.

'Mong ruthless beares he sure was bred;
He lurks within their den :

With beares he lives, with beares he feeds,
And drinks the blood of men.

To more than savage strength he joins
A more than human skill;

For arms, ne cunning may suffice
His cruel rage to still:

Up then rose sir Valentine,

And claim'd that arduous deed.

Go forth and conquer, say'd the king,
And great shall be thy meed.

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