"Cative, awa ye maun na flie," Stout Rothsay cry'd bedeen, Till, frae my glaive, ye wi' ye beir "The wound ye fein'd yestrene." 'Mair o your kins bluid hae I spilt 'Than I docht evir grein; See Rothsay whare your brither lyes Bold Rothsay cried wi' lion's rage, "Sae Draffan seiks our sister's luve, Swith on the word an arrow cam The chief was forcd to quit the stryfe, His minstrals there wi' dolefu care The bludy shaft withdrew; Sair did the leider rue. 'Cheir ye my mirrie men,' Draffan cryd, Wi' meikle pryde and glie; 'The praise is ours; nae chieftain bides That hautie boast heard Hardyknute, Sair weiried wi' the nune-tide heat, And toilsum deids of weir. The first sicht, when he past the thrang, Was Malcolm on the swaird: "Wold hevin that dethe my eild had tane, "And thy youtheid had spard! "Draffan I ken thy ire, but now 'Lord Hardyknute stryke gif ye may, "Yes:rene the priest in haly band "Haste, mount thy steid, or I sall licht 'Now mind thy aith,' syne Draffan stout To Allan loudly cryd, Wha drew the shynand blade bot dreid And perc'd his masters syde. Low to the bleiding eard he fell, And dethe sune clos'd his eyne. 66 Draffan, till now I did na ken "Thy dethe cold muve my tein. "I wold to Chryste thou valiant youth, "Thou wert in life again; "May ill befa my ruthless wrauth "That brocht thee to sic pain? "Fairly, anes a my joy and pryde, "To Icolm beir ye Draffan's corse, "Whar she may pay his heidles luve This celebrated, and beautiful, and sublime Ballad, was written by Lady Wardlaw, second daughter of Sir Charles Halket, of Pitferran. She was born in 1677, and in 1696, married to Sir Henry Wardlaw, of Balmulie, or Petrivie, in Fifeshire. She died about the year 1727. She gave her Ballad to the world, through the medium of Sir John Bruce, of Kinross, her brother-in-law, who communicated the MS. to Lord Binning with the following account: "In performance of my promise, I send you a true copy of the manuscript I found a few weeks ago, in an old vault at Dumfermline; it is written on vellum in a fair Gothic character, but so much defaced by time, as you'll find, that the tenth part is not legible." It was first published in 1719, by some literary gentlemen, who really believed the vellum and vault story, and was afterward admitted by Allan Ramsay into The Ever-green, from which almost every suc ceeding edition has been taken. The Ballad celebrates an invasion of Scotland in 1263, by Haco, king of Norway, who laid waste Kintire, and the islands of Bute, and Arranhe also plundered the islands of Loch-lomond, which were at that time well inhabited, or as Boece describes them, "thirty isles weil biggit with kirks, temples and houses." A tempest, however, drove his ships on shore near Largs, where he landed his troops, there the Scotch army attacked them, on the 2d October, 1263. The second part is still more modern than the first, though on its first publication it was given out to be by the same author, and said to have been brought to light in the same marvellous manner. It is, perhaps, inferior to the first part, but possesses too much inerit to be overlooked in a selection of this kind, especially as the lovers of antiquity are indebted to the author, Mr. John Pinkerton, for much of the knowledge they possess of ancient Scottish Poetry. THE CHILD OF ELLE. ON yonder hill a castle stands, The Childe of Elle to his garden went, Whan, lo, he beheld fair Emmeline's page The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, And soone he mette fair Emmeline's page Now Christe thee save thou little foot page, Oh tell me how does thy lady gaye, My lady she is all woe-begone, And the teares they fall from her eyne; And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe, And bids thee sometimes think on her, And here shee sends thee a ring of gold, For ah! her gentle heart is broke, And in grave soone must shee bee, Her father hath broucht her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye, And within three dayes she must him wedde, Now hye thee backe, thou little foot page, And tell her that I, her owne true love, Now hye thee backe, thou little foot page, This night will I be at her bowre-windowe, The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, Until he came to fair Emmeline's bowre, O, ladye, I've been with thy own true love, This night will he bee at thy bowre windowe, And die or sett thee free. Now day was gone and night was come, And all were fast asleepe: All save the lady Emmeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe. And sune she heard her true love's voice, Awake, awake my ladye deare, Come mount this fair palfraye; This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, Nowe naye, now naye, thou gentle knicht, For aye should I tine my maiden fame, O ladye thou with a knight so true To my lady mother I will thee bring, |