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“ 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

• In dethe afore your eyne.' Bold Rothsay cried wi' lion's rage,

" O hatefu cursed deid ! “ Sae Draffan seiks our sister's luve,

“ Nor feirs far ither meid !” Swith on the word an arrow cam

Frae ane o' Rothsay's band,
And smote on Draffan's lifted targe,

Syne Rothsays splent it fand.
Perc'd throuch the knie to his fierce steid,

Wha pranc'd wi' egre pain,
The chief was forcd to quit the stryfe,

And seik the nether plain.
His minstrals there wi' dolefu care

The bludy shaft withdrew;
But that he sae was bar'd the fecht

Sair did the leider rue.
• Cheir ye my mirrie men,' Draffan cryd,

Wi' meikle pryde and glie; "The praise is ours; nae chieftain bides

• Wi' us to bate the grie.'
That hautie boast heard Hardyknute,

Whare he lein'd on his speir,
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 !

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“ Draffan I ken thy ire, but now

Thy micht I mein to see.” But eir he strak the deidly dint

Draffan was on his knie. • Lord Hardyknute stryke gif ye may,

* I neir will stryve wi thee; * Forfend your dochtir see you slayne

Frae whar she sits on hie! Yes:rene the priest in haly band

· Me join'd wi' Fairly deir; For her sake let us part in peice,

And neir meet mair in weir.' "O king of hevin, what seimly speech

“ A featour's lips can send ! * And art thou he wha baith my sons

“ Brocht to a bluidy end? “ Haste, mount thy steid, or I sall licht

“ And meit thee on the plain; “ For by my forbere's saul we neir

“ Sall part till ane be slayne." 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. “ 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,

“ Now a my grief and bale,
“ Ye maun wi' haly maidens byde

“ Your deidly faut to wail.

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“ To Icolm beir ye Draffan's corse,

“ And dochtir anes sae dier,
“ Whar she may pay his heidles luve

“ Wi mony a mournfu teir."

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 1996, 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 admite ted 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 inbabited, 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, in. ferior 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,

With walles and towres bedight;
And yonder lives the Child of Elle,

A younge and comely knighte.

The Childe of Elle to his garden went,

And stood at his garden pale,
Whan, lo, he beheld fair Einmeline's

page
Come tripping doun the dale.

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The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,

Y-wis he stoode not stille,
And soone he mette fair Emmeline's page

Come climbing up the hille.
Now Christe thee save thou little foot page,

Now Christe thee save and see,
Oh tell me how does thy lady gaye,

And what may thy tidings be? My lady she is all woe-begone,

And the teares they fall from her eyne; And

aye she laments the deadly feude Betweene her house and thine.

And bere shee sends thee a silken scarfe,

Bedewde with many a teare;
And bids thee sometimes think on her,

Who loved thee so deare.

And here shee sends thee a ring of gold,

The last boon thou mayst have;
And biddes thee weare it for her sake

Whan she is laid in grave.
For ah! her gentle heart is broke,

And in grave soone must shee bee,
Sith her father hath chose her a new love,

And forbidde her to think of thee.

Her father hath broucht her a carlish knight,

Sir John of the north countraye,
And within three dayes she must him wedde,

Or he vowes he will her slaye.
Now hye thee backe, thou little foot page,

And greet thy ladye from mee.
And tell her that I, her owne true love,

Will dye or set her free.

Now hye thee backe, thou little foot page,

And let thy fair ladye know This night will I be at her bowre-windowe,

Betide me weale or woe.

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,

He neither stint na stayd,
Until he came to fair Emmeline's bowre,

Whan kneeling downe he sayd; 0, ladye, I've been with thy own true love,

And hee greets thee well by mee; 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,

Lowe whispering at the walle; Awake, awake, my dear ladye,

'Tis I thy true love call. Awake, awake my ladye deare,

Come mount this fair palfraye;
This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe,

Ile carrye thee hence awaye.
Nowe naye, now naye, thou gentle knicht,

Nowe naye this maye not bee;
For aye should I tine my maiden fame,

If alone I should wend with thee.

O ladye thou with a knight so true

Mayst safely wend alone,
To my lady mother I will thee bring,

Where marriage shall make us one.

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