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STATELY stept he east the ha,
And stately stept he west;
With scerce sevin yeirs of rest.
Wrocht Scotland meikle wae,
his sword tauld to their cost He was their deidly fae. Hie on a hill his castle stude,
With halls and touris a hicht, And gudely chambers fair to see,
Whare he lodgit mony a knicht. His dame sae peirles anes, and fair,
For chaste, and bewtie, shene,
Save Emergard the quene.
All men of valour stout,
Nyne lost their lives bot doubt;
Four yit remaind; lang mote they live
To stand by liege and land:
And hie was their command.
Their sister saft and deir,
And gowdin glist her hair.
Waefou to young and auld,
As story ever tauld.
Puft up with pouir and micht,
Wi mony a hardie knight.
Came as he sat at dyne,
Drinking the bluid-red wyne.
“ Your faes stand on the strand; " Full twenty thousand glittering speirs
“ The chiefs of Norse command. Bring me my steid Mage dapple gray."
Our gude king raise and cryd : A trustier beist in all the land,
A Scots king nevir seyd. “ Gae, little page, tell Hardyknute,
“ Wha lives on hill sae hie, “ To draw his sword, the dreid of faes,
“ And haste and follow me.' The little page flew swift as dart,
Flung by his master's arm; Cum down, cum down, lord Hardyknute, * And red your king frae harm.'
Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown cheiks
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
In danger grit to do.
And gien five sounds sae shrill,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.
Had past the summer's morn;
They heard their father's horn
“We have other sport to bide;' And sune they hied them up the hill,
And sune were at his side.
“ To end my lengthened lyfe;
“ Frae manly feats of stryfe :
« Fair Scotland to enthral, * It's neir be said of Hardyknute,
“ He feird to ficht or fall. * Robin of Rothsay bend thy bow,
Thy arrows shute sae leil, " That mony a comely countenance
“ They've turn’d to doidly pale. “ Braive Thomas taike ye but your lance,
“ Ye neid nae weapons mair; “ Gif ye fecht wi't, as ye did anes,
“ Gainst Westmoreland's ferce heir. « And Malcolm, licht of fute as stag
“ That runs in forest wilde, “ Get me my thousands thrie of men “ Weil bred to sword and shield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine,
My blade of metal clere."
They sune had fled for feir.
And tuke her by the hand, " Fairer to me in age you seim
« Than maids for bewtie famd:
"To guard these stately touirs,
* Sae fast your painted bowers.” And first she wet her comely cheiks,
And then her boddice grene; The silken cords of twirtle twist
Were plet with silver shene;
Of neidle-wark sae rare,
Save that of Fairly fair.
Owre hills and mony a glen, When he cam to a wounded knicht,
Making a heavy mane: • Here maun I lye, here maun I dye
By treacheries fause gyles; • Witless I was that eir gave faith
• To wicked woman's smyles.'
To lean on silken seat,
“'Wha neir kend deidly hate;
“ Hir maids at deid of night; “ And Fairly fair your heart would cheir,
“As she stands in your sicht.
"Arise young knicht, and mount your steid,
“ Bricht lows the shynand day; « Chuse frae my menzie wham ye pleise,
“ To leid ye on the way." Wi smyless luik, and visage wan
The wounded knicht replyd, • Kind chieftain your intent pursue,
• For heir I maun abide. • To me nae after day nor nicht
• Can eir be sweit or fair; • But sune beneath sum draping tree,
• Cauld dethe sall end my care.' Still him to win strave Hardyknute,
Nor strave he lang in vain ; Short pleiding eithly micht prevale,
Him to his lure to gain. “ I will return wi speid to bide,
“ Your plaint and mend your wae: “ But private grudge maun neir be quelled,
“ Before our countries fae. « Mordac, thy eild may best be spaird
“ The fields of stryfe fraemang; Convey Sir knicht to my abode,
• And meise his egre pang.” Syne he has gane far hynd, out ower
Lord Chattan's land sae wyde; That lord a worthy wicht was ay,
Whan faes his courage seyd:
Whan Picts ruled Caledon,
When he sav'd Pictish crown.
He recht a rising hicht,
Norse army lay in sicht;