"Nae blynk fhynes round my Fairly Fair, "Nae ward ffands on my wa.

"What bodes it? Thomas, Robert, say.” Nae answer fits their dreid.

"Stand back, my fons, I'll be your gyde,” But by they paft wi fpeid.

XLII.

"As faft I've fped owr Scotland's faes— » There ceis'd his brag of weir,

Sair fham'd to mind ocht but his dame,
And maiden Fairly Fair.
Black feir he felt, but wha to feir,

He wiff nae yit wi dreid:
Sair fhuke his body, fair his limbs,
And a the warriour flied.

PART II.

XLIV.

"RETURN, return, ye men of bluid,
"And bring me back my chyld!"
A dolefur voice frae mid the ha

Reculd wi echoes wylde.
Beftraught wi dule and dreid, nae pouir
Had Hardyknute at a';

Full thrife he raught his ported fpeir,
And thrife he let it fa.

XLV.

haly God, for his deir fake, "Wha fav'd us on the rude

He tint his praier, and drew his glaive,

Yet reid wi Norland bluid.

"Brayd on, brayd on, my ftalwart fons,
"Grit cause we hae to feir;
"But age the canny ferce contema
"The hap they canna veir."

XLVI

• Return, return, ye men of bluid,
And bring me back my chylde!'
The dolefu voice frae mid the ha
Reculd wi echoes wylde.

Return, return, ye men of bluid,

And bring me back my chylde!

Alarmed by these terrific accents iffuing from as apartment of the murky castle, what wonder Hardyknute was fo unmanned that "All the warrior fled."

If we turn our eyes to the fituation of Hardyknute's Lady; her fon and her fervants murdered, her daughter forcibly taken away, her husband and her other fons perhaps flain in battle, and to heighten the melancholy scene, Shrilly shriek'd the raging wind,

"And rudelie blew the blaft;

Wi awfum blink, throuch the dark ha,
The fpeidy lichtning paft."

Her feelings may perhaps be suppofed but they cannot be difcribed.

Writing cannot be accounted fub ime unlefs it defcribe with judicious tafte what occupies a great deal of room in the fancy. That this quality confials in the fentiment, not the expreffion, this paffage, from the 41 to the 47th Stanzas, is an infance.

The form grew ryfe throuch a' the lift
The rattling thunder rang,

The black rain fhour'd, and lichtning glent
Their harnifine alang.

XLVII.

What feir poffeft their boding breefts
Whan, by the gloomy glour,
The caftle ditch wi deid bodies
They faw was fill'd out owr!
Quoth Hardyknute "I wold to Chryfte
The Norfe had wan the day,

"Sae had kiept at hame but anes,
Thilk bluidy feats to tay."

XLVIII.

Wi fpeid they paft, and fune they recht
The bafe courts founding bound,

Deip groans fith heard, and throuch the mirk
Lukd wiftfully around.

The moon, frae hind a fable cloud,

Wi fudden twinkle fhane,

Whan, on the cauldrif eard, they fand
The gude Sir Mordac layn.

XLIX.

Befprent wi gore, fuae helm to fpur,
Was the trew-heartit knicht;
Swyth frae his fleid fprang Hardyknute,
Muvit wi the heavy ficht,

"O fay thy master's fheild in weir,
"His fawman in the ha,

What hatefu chance cold hae the pouir "To lay thy eild fae law?"

[To be continued.]

J. Neilson, printer.

No. XII.

CONTINUATION OF

HARDY KNUTE.

L.

To his complaint the bleiding knicht
Return'd a piteous mane,
And recht his hand, whilk Hardyknute
Claucht ftreitly in his ain:
Gin eir ye fee lord Hardyknute,
Frae Mordac ye maun fay,

'Lord Draffan's treafon to confute.
• He ufd his fteddieft fay,'

LI.

He micht nae mair, for cruel dethe

Forbade him to proceid:

"I vow to God, I wina fleip

"Till I fee Draffan bleid.

"My fons, your
ir fifter was owr fair:

"But bruik he fall na lang
"His gude betide; my laft forbode
He'll trow belyvé nae fang.

Bown ye my eydent friends to kyth "To me your luve fae deir; "The Norfe' defeat mote weil perfuade neid feir."

"Nae riever ye

The fpeirmen, wi a michty fhout,
Cryd, Save our master deir ?
While he dow beir the fway bot care
Nae reiver we fall feir.'

LIII.

Return, return, ye men cf bluid,
And bring me back my chylde !'
The dolefu voice frae mid the ha
Reculd wi echoes wylde.

"I am to wyte, my valiant friends :"
And to the ha they ran,

The stately dore full ftreitly fteik'd
Wi iron boltis thrie they fand.

LIV.

The ftately dore, thouch ftreitly fteik'd
Wi waddin iron boltis thrie,
Richt fune his micht can eithly gar

Frae aff its hinges flie.

"Whar hae ye tane my dochter deir !

"Mair wold I fee her deid
"Than fee her in your bridal bed,

"For a' your portly meid.

LV.

"What thouch my gude and valiant lord
"Lyes ftrecht on the cauld clay?
"My lons the dethe may ablins fpair
To wreak their fifter's wae.