For love is like a carelesse childe,
Forgetting promise past:

He is blind, or deaf, whenere he list
His faith is never fast.

;

His fond desire is fickle found,
And yieldes a trustlesse joye;
Wonne with a world of toil and care,
And lost ev'n with a toye.

Such is the love of womankinde,
Or Love's faire name abusde,
Beneathe which many vaine desires,
And follyes are excusde.

'But true love is a lasting fire,

'Which viewless vestals' tend,
'That burnes for ever in the soule,
'And knowes nor change nor end.''

HARDYKNUTE.

A SCOTTISH FRAGMENT.

"THE ballad of Hardyknute has no great merit, if it be really ancient. People talk of nature; but mere obvious nature may be exhibited with very little power of mind." The suspicion of Johnson was just. The ballad is not "ancient." It was written by Elizabeth Halket, who married Sir Henry Wardlaw, and died about 1727, in her fifty-first year. Sir John Bruce, to whom Percy attributed the verses, was the lady's brother-in-law. Walter Scott called Hardyknute the first poem which he had learned, and the last which he should forget. He observed, however, that detection was inevitable, from the want of knowledge sufficiently exact to support the genius of the writer in its disguise. He specified the introduction of a chief, with a Norwegian name, resisting a Norse invasion at the battle of Largs; and the "needle-work so rare," which must have been long posterior to the reign of Alexander III. The historical events of the Ballad are these:-" In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, invaded the Western Isles of Scotland with a powerful fleet, and having taken and laid waste Kintire, he anchored

his fleet at the Cumbrays, and sent a detachment up the Clyde, which, landing at Loch Long, dragged their boats across the Isthmus at Tarbet, and plundered the Islands in Loch Lomond. In the meantime a storm arose, and several of the ships were driven on shore near Largs. The Scotch army attacked them; and the reinforcement sent to their assistance by Haco brought on the Battle of Largs, October 2nd, 1263." Mr. Finlay points out the accuracy of the local sketches. Fairly Castle, the residence of Hardyknute, is a single square tower, standing "high on a hill," by the side of a mountain stream, that tumbles over a rock into a deep chasm. The battle-field is three miles to the North of the Castle, which overlooks the Firth of Clyde to the blue hills of Arran.

STATELY Stept he east the wa','
And stately stept he west,

Full seventy years he now had seen,
Wi' scarce seven years of rest.
He liv'd when Britons' breach of faith
Wrought Scotland mickle wae:
And ay his sword tauld to their cost,
He was their deadlye fae.

High on a hill his castle stood,
With ha's and tow'rs a height,
And goodly chambers fair to se,
Where he lodged mony a knight.
His dame sae peerless anes and fair,
For chast and beauty deem'd,
Nae marrow had in all the land,
Save ELENOR the queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare,
All men of valour stout:
In bloody fight with sword in hand
Nine lost their lives bot3 doubt:
Four yet remain, lang may they live
To stand by liege and land;

High was their fame, high was their might,
And high was their command.

Great love they bare to FAIRLY fair,
Their sister saft and dear,

Her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp,1
And gowden glist her hair.

1 Wa'-way.

2 Marrow-equal.

3 Bot-without.

5 Gowden glist—shone as gold.

• Gimp-slender.

What waefu' wae her beauty bred?
Waefu' to young and auld,
Waefu' I trow to kyth and kin,
As story ever tauld.

The king of Norse in summer tyde,
Puff'd up with pow'r and might,
Landed in fair Scotland the isle
With mony a hardy knight.
The tydings to our good Scots king
Came, as he sat at dine,
With noble chiefs in brave aray,
Drinking the blood-red wine.

"To horse, to horse, my royal liege,
Your faes stand on the strand,
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands."
Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,
Our good king rose and cry'd,
A trustier beast in a' the land
A Scots king nevir try'd.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,

That lives on hill sae hie,

To draw his sword, the dread of faes,

And haste and follow me.

The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his master's arm,

"Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute

And rid your king frae harm."

Then red red grew his dark-brown cheeks,

Sae did his dark-brown brow;

His looks grew keen, as they were wont
In dangers great to do;

He's ta'en a horn as green as glass,

And gi'en five sounds sae shill,'

That trees in green wood shook thereat,

Sae loud rang ilka hill.

His sons in manly sport and glee
Had past that summer's morn,
When low down in a grassy dale
They heard their father's horn.

1 Sae shill-so shrill.

That horn, quo' they, ne'er sounds in peace,
We've other sport to bide.

And soon they hy'd them up the hill,
And soon were at his side.

"Late late the yestreen1 I ween'd in peace
To end my lengthened life;
My age might well excuse my arm
Frae manly feats of strife;

But now that Norse do's proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall,

It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute,
He fear'd to fight or fall.

"Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows shoot sae leel,2
That mony a comely countenance
They've turned to deadly pale.
Brade Thomas, take you but your lance;
You need nae weapons mair;
If you fight wi't as you did anes
'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.

"And Malcolm, light of foot as stag
That runs in forest wild,

Get me my thousands three of men
Well bred to sword and shield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine,3
My blade of mettal clear.

If faes but ken'd the hand it bare,
They soon had fled for fear.

"Farewell my dame sae peerless good,
(And took her by the hand),
Fairer to me in age you seem,
Than maids for beauty fam'd.

My youngest son shall here remain
To guard these stately towers,
And shut the silver bolt that keeps
Sae fast your painted bowers.'

And first she wet her comely cheiks,
And then her boddice green,
Her silken cords of twirtle* twist,
Well plett with silver sheen;

1 Yestreen-yester evening. Harnisine-armour.

2 Leel-true.

Twirtle twist-twirled twist.

And apron set with mony a dice
Of needle-wark sae rare,

Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess,
Save that of FAIRLY fair.

And he has ridden o'er muir and moss,
O'er hills and mony a glen,

When he came to a wounded knight
Making a heavy mane;

"Here maun I lye, here maun I dye,
By treacherie's false guiles;
Witless I was that e'er ga faith
To wicked woman's smiles."

"Sir knight, gin you were in my bower,
To lean on silken seat,

My lady's kindly care you'd prove,
Who ne'er knew deadly hate:
Herself wou'd watch you a' the day,
Her maids a dead of night;

And FAIRLY fair your heart wou'd chear,
As she stands in your sight.

"Arise young knight, and mount your stead,
Full lowns the shynand day :

Choose frae my menzie2 whom ye please

To lead you on the way."

With smileless look, and visage wan

The wounded knight reply'd :

"Kind chieftain, your intent pursue,
For here I maun abyde.

To me nae after day nor night
Can e're be sweet or fair,

But soon beneath some draping tree,
Cauld death shall end my care."
With him nae pleading might prevail;
Brave Hardyknute to gain

With fairest words, and reason strong,
Strave courteously in vain.

Syne he has gane far hynd3 out o'er
Lord Chattan's land sae wide;
That lord a worthy wight was ay,
When faes his courage sey'd:4

1 Lowns-blazes.

2 Menzie-retinue.

3 Far hynd-far beyond, over the country.

4 Sey'd―tried.