[This fine morsel of heroic poetry,' as it is styled by Dr. Percy, was first published in 1719, under the title, Hardyknute, a Fragment;' Edinburgh, folio. The expenses of publication were borne, in part at least, by the Lord President Forbes and Sir Gilbert Elliot, afterwards Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland, who believed it to be, what it was represented to them as being, a genuine old ballad. As such too it was admitted by Allan Ramsay into his Evergreen, being a Collection of Scots poems wrote by the ingenious before 1600; and it seems to have generally passed for ancient,' until Dr. Percy, in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' London, 1755, put an end to whatever doubt may have existed in reference to the point, by giving the name of the author. This was Lady Wardlaw, wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw, of Balumlie, in Fife. The MS. was sent to Lord Binnington by her brother-in-law, Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, as having been found by him in an old vault at Dumferline, written on vellum, in a fair Gothic character, but much defaced by time.' Subsequently, however, Lady Wardlaw acknowledged being the author, and by way of proving herself so, produced the last two stanzas, which were not in the copy first printed] TATELY stept he east the wa', Full seventy years he now had seen, He liv'd when Britons breach of faith High on a hill his castle stood, Full thirteen sons to him she bare, High was their fame, high was their mignt, Great love they bare to FAIRLY fair, Her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp, The king of Norse in summer tyde, With noble chiefs in brave aray To horse, to horse, my royal liege, "Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray," Our good king rose and cry'd, A trustier beast in a' the land "Go little page, tell Hardyknute, To draw his sword, the dread of faes, The little page flew swift as dart "Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute, Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, His looks grew keen, as they were wont He's ta'en a horn as green as glass, And gi'en five sounds sae shill, That trees in green wood shook thereat, His sons in manly sport and glee, "That horn," quo' they, "ne'er sounds in peace, And soon they hy'd them up the hill, And soon were at his side. Late, late the yestreen I ween'd in peace To end my lengthened life, My age might well excuse my arm Frae manly feats of strife; But now that Norse do's proudly boast It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute, He fear'd to fight or fall. Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, If you fight wi't as you did anes 'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. 1 |