Wallas out owr yon burn he lap,

And he hes lichtit law down on yon plain; And he was awar o ane gaie ladie,

As scho wes at the well waschin.

"Quhat tydandis, quhat tydandis, fair ladie" he sayis,
"Quhat tydandis, hastow to tell untill me?
"Quhat tydandis, quhat tyda dis, fair ladie" he sayis,
"Quhat tydandis, hastow in the south countrie?

Considerable discrepancies, however, exist between the two accounts; a circumstance which may easily be accounted for, from the love the lower orders have of the marvellous. It was first printed, we believe, in Johnstone's Scots Musical Museum, and after that republished by the late ingenious Mr. John Findlay of Glasgow, in his Scottish, Historical, and Romantic Ballads. From an old M.S. copy of it, in the possession of a friend, we have been able to give what we humbly consider rather a better text, besides restoring it to its original orthography, which, to our antiquarian readers, must be a matter of some consequence. The generality of Editors very often fall into one, or other, or both of these prime errors, when editing the poetical remains of former ages, namely, that of corrupting the text by their own interpolations, and that, of modernising the ancient spelling, under the pretext of obliging their readers, who, for the most part, we dare say, would rather thank them to let it alone.

No apology we imagine is necessary to the public for occupying their attention with these effusions in honour of Wallace. Every thing connected with him is dear to the hearts of Scotsmen-all his well known haunts are visited with a superstitious awe and veneration-his name is the thrilling watchword of patriotism, liberty, and independence. The finest trait in our national character will be lost when his praises are no longer sung with rapture, and his atchievements no longer remembered with interest. Would to God this event may never happen.

་ Laigh down in yon wee hostleir hous
Thair bin fyftein Inglismen I lede,
And thai are seikin for gude Wallas,
Ittis him to tak and him to heid."

"Thair is nocht in my purs" quod gude Wallas,
Thair is nocht ava, not ane bare pennie,

Zit in suth I sall gae to yon wee hostleir hous,
Thir fyftein Inglismen to see."

And quhan he cam to yon wee hostleir hous,
He bade Benedicite be thair;

"And quhat lerges to ane puir eild wicht,
Haif ye in charitie to spair?

"Quhare wes ye born, auld crukit carl, Quhare wes ye born, in quhat countrie?" "I am a trew Scot baith born and bred,

And ane auld crukit carl siclyk as you see."

"I wuld gie fyftein merkis to onie crukit carl, To onie crukit carl siclyk as ye,

Gif ye wuld bring me the gude Wallas,

God wot he's the man I wuld verie fain see.'

He strak the brym Captane alangis the chafftis blade, That nevit ane bit o meal he ate mair,

And he stickit the lave at the buird quhare thai sat, And he left them aw lyin spreitless thair.

"Get up, gude-wyff, get up," quod he,
"And get som deil denner to me in haste,
For it will sune be three lang lang dayis,
Syn I ae bit o meit did taste."

The denner wes nae weil readie,
Nor wes it on the tabill set,
Quhyll uther fyftein Inglismen

Wer lichtit aw down fornentis the yett.

"Cum out, cum out, now, gude Wallas,
This is the day that thow maun die,”
"I lippen nocht sae litill to God, he sayis,
But doubt tho I be but ill worthie."

The gude-wyff scho had ane auld gude-man,
Be gude Wallas he sikarlie stude,
Qubyll ten o thir fyftein Inglismen

Befoir the dure lay steipit in thair blude.

The uthir fyff to the grene-wud ran,

And he hangit them ilk ane on the bowis roun, And on the neist morn, wi his mirrie men aw, He sat at dyn in Lochmaben toun.

CCXLIX.

THE GALLANT TROUBADOUR.

Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,

Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight,

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he march'd with helm on head,
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burthen still he sung:
"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolv'd for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour."

Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way,
Mid splintering lance, and falchion sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;

"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the gallant Troubadour!"

Alas! upon the bloody field,

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still, reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave;
"My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight,
Becomes the gallant Troubadour!"

CCLXX.

WILT THOU NOT WAKEN, BRIDE OF MAY.

A BRIDAL SERENADE.

By a modern Welsh Harper.

Wilt thou not waken, Bride of May,

While flowers are fresh and the sweet bells chime? Listen and learn from my roundelay,

How all Life's pilot-boats sail'd one day→→

A match with Time.