SIR CAULINE. From Reliques of English Poetry, i. 44. "THIS old romantic tale," says Percy, 66 was preserved in the Editor's folio MS., but in so very defective and mutilated a condition, (not from any chasm in the MS., but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story." Many of the interpolations acknowledged in such general terms might with some confidence be pointed out. Among them are certainly most, if not all, of the last twelve stanzas of the Second Part, which include the catastrophe to the story. It is difficult to believe that this charming romance had so tragic and so sentimental a conclusion. The first part of this ballad is preserved in Scotland, under the title of King Malcolm and Sir Colvin, and is printed in our Appendix from Buchan's collection. In this, Sir Colvin weds the princess after his victory over the Elrick knight. THE FIRST PART. IN Ireland, ferr over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge; The kinge had a ladye to his daughter, And princely wightes that ladye wooed Syr Cauline loveth her best of all, But nothing durst he saye, Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, But deerlye he lovde this may. 10 Till on a daye it so beffell Great dill to him was dight; The maydens love removde his mynd, 15 To care-bed went the knighte. One while he spred his armes him fro, One while he spred them nye: "And aye! but I winne that ladyes love, For dole now I mun dye." 20 And whan our parish-masse was done, He sayes, "Where is Syr Cauline, That is wont to serve the wyne?" Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, 25 66 And fast his handes gan wringe : Syr Cauline is sicke, and like to dye, "Fetche me downe my daughter deere, She is a leeche fulle fine; Goe take him doughe and the baken bread, And serve him with the wyne soe red: Lothe I were him to tine." Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes, 66 Her maydens followyng nye : "O well," she sayth, "how doth my lord?" "O sicke, thou fayr ladye." "Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, Never lye soe cowardlee; For it is told in my fathers halle You dye for love of mee." "Fayre ladye, it is for your love That all this dill I drye : For if you wold comfort me with a kisse, 30 35 40 Then were I brought from bale to blisse, No lenger wold I lye." "Sir knighte, my father is a kinge, I am his onlye heire; Alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte, I never can be youre fere." "O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, And I am not thy peere ; But let me doe some deedes of armes, To be your bacheleere.” 45 50 "Some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, 55 My bacheleere to bee, (But ever and aye my heart wold rue, Giff harm shold happe to thee,) "Upon Eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, Upon the mores brodinge; 60 And dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte, Untile the fayre morninge? "For the Eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, Will examine you beforne; And never man bare life awaye, But he did him scath and scorne. "That knighte he is a foul paynim, And large of limb and bone; 65 And but if heaven may be thy speede, "Nowe on the Eldridge hilles Ile walke, And Ile either bring you a ready token, The lady has gone to her own chaumbere, For to wake there all night. Unto midnight, that the moone did rise, He walked up and downe; Then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe Over the bents soe browne; Quoth hee, "If cryance come till my heart, And soone he spyde on the mores so broad A furyous wight and fell; A ladye bright his brydle led, Clad in a fayre kyrtell : And soe fast he called on Syr Cauline, For but if cryance come till thy heart, 70 75 90 85 99 |