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Zogh I suld sitt to doomysday,
With my tong to wrabbe and wry,
Certanly all hyr aray,
It beth neuyr diseryuyd for me.
Hyr palfra was dappyll gray,
Sycke on say neuer none,
As the son in somers day,
All abowte that lady shone;
Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone,
A semly sight it was to se,
Bryht with mony a precyous stone,
And compasyd all with crapste;
Stones of oryens gret plente,
Her hair about her hede it hang,
She rode ouer the farnyle.
A while she blew a while she sang,
Her girths of nobil silke they were,
Her boculs were of beryl stone,
Sadyll and brydill war -- :
With sylk and sendel about bedone,
Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne,
And hyr eroper of the arase,
Hyr brydil was of gold fyne,
On euery syde forsothe hong bells thre,
Hyr brydil reynes – – ·
A semly syzt----

Crop and patyrel –
In every joynt ---

She led thre grew hounds in a leash,
And ratches cowpled by her ran;
She bar an horn about her halse,
And undir her gyrdil meny flené.
Thomas lay and sa---
In the bankes of ---

He sayd yonder is Mary of Might,
That bar the child that died for me,

Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright,

Myd my hert will breke in three;
I schal me hye with all my might,
Hyr to mete at Eldyn tree.
Thomas rathly up he rase,
And ran ouer mountayn hye,
If it be sothe the story says,
He met her euyn at Eldyn tre.
Thomas knelyd down on his kne
Undir nethe the grenewood spray,
And sayd, Lovely lady, thou rue on me,
Queen of heaven as you well may be;
But I am a lady of another countrie,
If I be pareld most of prise,

I ride after the wild fee,
My ratches rinnen at my devys.
If thou be pareld most of prise,
And rides a lady in strang foly,
Lovely lady, as thou art wise,
Giue you me leue to lig ye by.
Do way, Thomas, that were foly,
I pray ye, Thomas, late me be,
That sin will fordo all my bewtie:
Lovely lady, rewe on me,
And euer more I shall with ye dwell,
Here my trowth I plyght to thee,
Where you beleues in heuyn or hell.
Thomas, and you myght lyge me by,
Undir nethe this grene wode spray,
Thou would tell full hastely,
That thou had layn by a lady gay.
Lady, I mote lyg by the,
Undir nethe the greene wode tre,
For all the gold in chrystenty,
Suld you neuer be wryede for me.
Man on molde you will me marre,
And yet bot you may haf you will,

Trow you well, Thomas, you cheuyest ye warre;

For all my bewtie wilt you spill.
Down lyghtyd that lady bryzt,
Undir nethe the grene wode spray,
And as ye story sayth full ryzt,
Seuvn tymes by her he lay.
She seyd, man, you lyste thi play,.
What berde in bouyr may defe with thee,
That maries me all this long day;
I pray ye, Thomas, lat me be.
Thomas stode up in the stede,
And hehelde the lady gay,

Her heyre hang downe about hyr hede,
The tone was blak, the other gray,
Her eyn semyt onte before was gray,
Her gay elethyng was all away,

That he before had sene in that stede;
Hyr body as blo as ony bede.
Thomas sighede, and sayd, allas,
Me thynke this a dullfull syght,
That thou art fadyd in the face,
Before you shone as son so bryzt.
Take thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone,
At gresse, and at euery tre,

This twelvemonth sall you with me gone,
Medyl erth you sall not se.

Alas, he seyd, full wo is me,

I trow my dedes will werke me care,
Jesu, my sole to ye
Whedir so euyr my body sall fare.
She rode furth with all her myzt,
Undir nethe the derne lee,
It was derke as at midnyzt,
And euyr in water unto the kne;
Through the space of days thre,
He herde but swowyng of a flode;
Thomas sayd, ful wo is me,
Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode;
To a garden she lede him tyte,
There was fruyte in grete plente,
Peyres and appless ther were rype,
The date and the damese,

The figge and als fylbert tre;

The nyghtyngale bredying in her neste,
The papigaye about gan fle,

The throstylcok sang wold hafe no rest.
He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand
As man for faute that was faynt;
She seyd, Thomas, lat al stand,
Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt.
Sehe said, Thomas, I the hyzt,
To lay thi hede upon my kne,
And thou shalt see fayrer sight,
Than euyr sawe man in their kintre
Sees thou, Thomas, yon fair way,
That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn?
Yonder is the waye to heuyn for ay,
Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payus.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone secand way,
That lygges lawe undir the ryse?
Streight is the way, sothly to say,
To the joyes of paradyce.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone thyrd way,
That ligges ouyr yone how
Wide is the way sothly to say,
To the brynyng fyres of hell.
Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castells,
That standes ouyr yone fayr hill?
Of town and tower it bereth the belle,
In middel erth is non like theretill.
Whan thou comyst in yon castell gaye
I pray thu curteis man to be;
What so any man to you say,
Soke thu answer non but me.
My lord is servyed at yche messe,
With xxx kniztes feir and fre;
I sall say syttyng on the dese,
I toke thy speche beyonde the le.
Thomas stode as still as stone,
And beheld that ladye gaye;
Than was sche fayr and ryche anone,
And also ryal on hir palfreye.

The grewhoundes had fylde them on the der,

The ratches coupled, by my fay,

She blewe her horn Thomas to chere,

To the castle she went her way.
The lady into the hall went,
Thomas folowyd at her hand;
Thar kept hyr mony a lady gent,
With curtasy and lawe.
Harp and fedyl both he fande,
The getern and the sawtry,
Lut and rybib ther gon gang,
Thair was al maner of mynstralsy.
The most fertly that Thomas thoght,
When he com emyddes the flore,
Fourty hertes to quarry were broght,
That had ben befor both long and store.
Lymors lay lappyng blode,

And kokes standing with dressyng knife,
And dressyd dere as thai wer wode,
And rewell was thair wonder.
Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre
All that leue long day.
Ladyes that were gret of gre
Sat and sang of rych aray.

Thomas sawe much more in that place, 'Than I can descryve,

Til on a day alas, alas,

My lovelye ladye sayd to me,

Busk ye, Thomas, you must agayn, Here you may no longer be:

Hy then zerne that you were at hame,
I sal ye bryng to Eldyn tre.
Thomas answerd with heuy cher,
And sayd, lowely ladye, lat ma be,
For I say ye certainly here
Haf I be bot the space of dayes three.
Sothly, Thomas, as I telle ye,
You hath been here thre yeres,
And here you may no longer be;
And I sal tele ye a skele,
To-morrowe of helle ye foule fende
Amang our folke shall chuse his fee:
For you art a larg man and an hende,
Trowe you wele he will chuse thee.
For all the golde that may be,
Sal you not be betrayed for me,
And thairfor sal you hens wend.
She broght him euyn to Eldyn tre,
Under nethe the grene wode spray,
In Huntle bankes was fayr to be,
Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day.
Ferre ouyr montayns gray,
There hathe my facon:

Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way.


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lection of Scottish ballads and songs, has ar entire copy of this ancient poem, with all the collations. The lacuna of the former edition have been supplied from his copy.]

Harold the Dauntless:


The rolling billiard ball, the rattling dice, The turning lathe for framing gimcrack nice, The amateur's blotched pallet thou may'st claim,


1. And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyan.-P. 325. Ruberslaw and Duyon are two high hills above Jedburgh.

2. Then all by bonny Coldingknow.-P. 325.

An ancient tower near Ercildoun, belonging to a family of the name of Home. One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus:

Vengeance, vengeance! when and where?

On the house of Colding know, now and ever mair. The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody, called the Broom o' the Cowdenknows.

3. They roused the deer from Caddenhead, To distant Torwoodlee.-P. 325.

Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirkshire.

4. How courteous Gawaine met the wound.-P. 325, See in the Fabliaux of Monsier le Grande, elegantly translated by the late Gregory Way, esq., the tale of the Knight and the Sword.

5. As white as snow on Fairnalie.-P. 326.

shire. In a popular edition of the first part of ThoAn ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirkmas the Rhymer, the fairy queen thus addresses


Gin ye wad meet wi' me again,
Gang to the bonnie banks of Fairnalie.

Retort, and air pump, threatening frogs and mice, (Murders disguised by philosophic name,) And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom


Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance

Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote! Plays, poems, novels, never read but once;

But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote, That bears thy name, and is thine antidote;

And not of such the strain by Thomson sung, Delicious dreams inspiring by his note,

What time to indolence his harp he strung: Oh! might my lay be ranked that happier list


Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assait.
For me, I love my study-fire to trim,
And con right vacantly some idle tale,

Displaying on the couch each listless limb,
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow dim,

And doubtful slumber half supplies the theme; While antique shapes of knight and giant grim, Damsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam, And the romancer's tale becomes the reader's


'Tis thus my malady I well may bear,

Albeit outstretched, like pope's own Paridel, Upon the rack of a too-easy chair;

And find, to cheat the time, a powerful spell

In old romaunts of errantry that tell,
Or later legends of the fairy-folk,
Or oriental tale of Afrite fell,

Of genii, talisman, and broad-wing'd roc, Tho' taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock.

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes unsought,
Arrange themselves in some romantic lay;
The which, as things unfitting graver thought,
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser day;-
These few survive--and proudly let me say,
Court not the critic's smile, nor dread his frown;
They well may serve to while an hour away,

Nor does the volume ask for more renown, Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down.



LIST to the valorous deeds that were done
By Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's

Count Witikind came of a regal strain,
And roved with his Norsemen the land and the


Wo to the realms which he coasted! for there
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair,
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest,
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast;
When he hoisted his standard black,
Before him was battle, behind him wrack,
And be burned the churches, that heathen Dane,
To light his band to their barks again.


"Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd,
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd;
Priest did'st thou slay, and churches burn,
Time it is now to repentance to turn;
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish rite,
Leave now the darkness, and wend into light:
O! while life and space are given,
son!Turn thee yet, and think of heaven!"

That stern old heathen his head he raised,
And on the good prelate he steadfastly gazed:
"Give me broad lands on the Wear and the Tyne,
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto thine."


On Erin's shores was his outrage known,
The winds of France had his banners blown;
Little was there to plunder, yet still
His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill:
But upon merry England's coast

More frequent he sail'd, for he won the most.
So wide and so far his ravage they knew,
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the welkin blue,
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call,
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall,
Peasants fled inward his fury to 'scape,
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape,
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung,
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung,
us, St. Mary, from flood and from fire,
From famine and pest, and count Witikind's ire!"


Time will rust the sharpest sword, Time will consume the strongest cord;

That which moulders hemp and steel, Mortal arm and nerve must feel.


He liked the wealth of fair England so well,
That he sought in her bosom as native to dwell.
He enter'd the Humber in fearful hour,
And disembark'd with his Danish power.
Three earls came against him with all their train,
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain:
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich strand,
And he wasted and warr'd in Northumberland.
But the Saxon king was a sire in age,
Weak in battle, in council sage;
Peace of that heathen leader he sought,
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought:
And the count took upon him the peaceable style,
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's broad isle.

Of the Danish band, whom count Witikind led,
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead;
Himself found his armour full weighty to bear,
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his hair;
He lean'd on a staff, when his step went abroad,
And patient his palfrey, when steed he bestrode;
As he grew feebler his wildness ceased,
He made himself peace with prelate and priest,
Made his peace, and, stooping his head,
Patiently listed the counsel they said:
Saint Cuthbert's bishop was holy and grave,
Wise and good was the counsel he gave.

VI. Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and on Wear, To be held of the church by bridle and spear; Part of Monk wearmouth, of Tynedale part, To better his will, and to soften his heart: Count Witikind was a joyful man, Less for the faith than the lands that he wan. The high church of Durham is dress'd for the day, The clergy are rank'd in their solemn array; There came the count, in a bear-skin warm, Leaning on Hilda, his concubine's arm; He kneel'd before saint Cuthbert's shrine, With patience unwonted at rites divine: He abjured the gods of heathen race, And he bent his head at the font of But such was the griesly old proselyte's look, That the priest who baptized him grew pale and



And the old monks mutter'd beneath their hood, "Of a stem so stubborn can never spring good!"


Up then arose that grim convertite,
Homeward he hied him when ended the rite
The prelate in honour will with him ride,
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side,
Banners and banderols danced in the wind,
Monks rode before them, and spearmen behind,
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne:
And full in front did that fortress lower,
In darksome strength with its buttress and tower.
At the castle-gate was young Harold there,
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir.


Young Harold was fear'd for his hardihood,
His strength of frame, and his fury of mood;
Rude he was, and wild to behold,
Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold,
Cap of vair, nor rich array,
Such as should grace that festal day:
His doublet of bull's hide was all unbraced,
Uncovered his head, and his sandal unlaced;
His shaggy black locks on his brow hung low,
And his eyes glanced thro' them a swarthy glow;

A Danish club in his hand he bore,
The spikes were clotted with recent gore;
At his back a she wolf, and her wolf cubs twain,
I the dangerous chase that morning slain.
Rude was the greeting to his father he made,
None to the bishop-while thus he said:
"What priest-led hypocrite art thou,
With thy humbled look and thy monkish brow,
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his vow?
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster known,
Royal Eric's fearless son,

Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord,
Who won his bride by the axe and sword:
From the shrine of St. Peter the calice who tore,
And melted to bracelets for Freya and Thor;
With one blow of his gauntlet who bursted the skull,
Before Odin's stone, of the mountain bull?

Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to war-gods belong,

With the deed of the brave, and the blow of the strong,

And now, in thine age, to dotage sunk,
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven monk,
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of hair,
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou bear?
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower
To batten with priest and with paramour?
O! out upon thine endless shame!

Each scald's high harp shall blast thy fame,
And thy son will refuse thee a father's name!"


Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look,
His faultering voice with fury shook;-
"Hear me, Harold, of harden'd heart!
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert.


But reckoning to none of my actions I owe,
And least to my son such accounting will show.
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth,
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew reason or ruth?
Hence! to the wolf and the bear in her den;
These are thy mates, and not rational men.


XI. Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied, "We must honour our sires, if we fear when they


For me, I am yet what thy lessons have made, 1 was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a blade; An infant, was taught to clap hands and to shout, From the roofs of the tower when the flame had broke out;


In the blood of slain foemen my finger to dip, And tinge with its purple my cheek and my lip. 'Tis thou know'st not truth, that has barter'd in eld, For a price, the brave faith that thine ancestors When this wolf”—and the carcass he flung on the plain"Shall awake and give food to her nurslings again, The face of his father will Harold review; Till then, aged heathen, young christian, adieu!"

A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung,
Laid his hand on the pommel and into it sprung;
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan,
When the holy sign on the earth was thrown!
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand,
But the calmer prelate stay'd his hand;
"Let him pass free!--Heaven knows its hour-
But he must own repentance's power,
Pray and weep, and penance bear,

Ere he old land by the Tyne and the Wear."—
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father gone
Young Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's


Thine outrage insane I command thee to cease,
Fear my wrath and remain at peace:--
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid,
Richly the church has a recompense made,

And the truth of her doctrines prove with my He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of rain,

Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from home.

He saw the red lightning through shot-hole and

XII. Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast, As through the pageant the heathen pass'd.


High was the feasting in Witikind's hall,
Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and all;
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure
The scandal which time and instruction might



were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first to re


In his wine and his wassail, a half-christen'd Dane. The mead flow'd around, and the ale was drain'd dry,

Wild was the laughter, the song, and the cry;
With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in
The war-songs of Danesman, Norweyan, and Finn,
Till man after man the contention gave o'er,
Outstretch'd on the rushes that strew'd the hall
And the tempest within, having ceased its wild


Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd without

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone,
Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermengarde's son;
In the train of lord Harold the page was the first,
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde nursed;
And grieved was young Gunnar his master should



"And oh!" said the page, 66 on the shelterless


Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and cold! What though he was stubborn, and wayward, and wild,

He endur'd ine because I was Ermengarde's child,
Aud often from dawn till the set of the sun,
In the chase, by his stirrup, unchidden I run:
1 would I were older, and knighthood could bear,
I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne and the
For my mother's command with her last parting

Bade me follow her nursling in life and to death. XV.

It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain, As if Lok, the destroyer, had burst from his chain! Accursed by the church, and expell'd by his sire, Nor christain nor Dane give him shelter or fire, And this tempest what mortal may houseless enUnaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor! dure? Whate'er comes of Gunnar he tarries not here." He leapt from his couch and he grasp'd to his spear, Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturbed by his tread,

The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the dead:


Ungrateful and bestial!" his anger broke forth, "To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of the North!

And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have plenty in


Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and ore."

Then heeding full little of ban or of curse,
He has siezed on the prior of Jorvaux's purse:
Saint Meneholt's abbot next morning has miss'd
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to the wrist:
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has ta'en,
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hildebrand's

To the stable-vard he made his way,
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay,
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast,


Years after years had gone and fled,

In the chapel still is shown

And right on his way to the moorland has pass'd. The good old prelate lies lapp'd in lead;
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face
A weather so wild at so rash a pace;
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd,
There answer'd a steed that was bound beside,
And the red flash of lightning show'd there where
His master, lord Harold, outstretch'd on the clay.



Up he started, and thunder'd out,
And rais'd the club in his deadly hand.
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told,
Show'd the palfrey and proffer'd the gold.
"Back, back, and home, thou simple boy!
Thou can'st not share my grief or joy:
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry
When thou hast seen a sparrow die?
And can'st thou, as my follower should,
Wade ancle-deep through foeman's blood,
Dare mortal and immortal foe,
The gods above, the fiends below,
And man on earth, more hateful still,
The very fountain head of ill?
Desperate of life, and careless of death,
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and scathe,
Such must thou be with me to roam,
And such thou canst not be---back, and home!"
Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough,
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld the dark

How oft with few, how oft alone,
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won.
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red
When each other glance was quench'd with dread,
Bore oft a light of deadiy flame
That ne'er from mortal courage came.
Those limos so strong, that mood so stern,
That loved the couch of heath and fern,
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town,
More than to rest on driven down;
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood,
Men deem'd must come of aught but good;
And they whisper'd, the great master fiend was at


With Harold the Dauntless, count Witikind's son.


With gentler look lord Harold eyed
The page, then turn'd his head aside;
And either a tear did his eye
lash stain,
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain.
• Art thou an outcast then?" quoth he,
"The meeter page to follow me."
"Twere bootless to tell what climes they sought,
Ventures achieved, and battles fought;

His sculptured form on a marble stone,
With staff and ring and scapulaire,
And folded hands in the act of prayer.
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's brow;
The power of his crozier he loved to extend
O'er whatever would break or whatever would


And half he repented his purpose and vow.
But now to draw back were bootless shame,
And he loved his master, so urged his claim:
"Alas! if my arm and my courage be weak,
Bear with me a while for old Ermengarde's sake;
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith,
As to fear he would break it for peril of death.
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold,
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from cold?
And, did I bear a baser mind,
What lot remains if I stay behind?
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath,
A dungeon and a shameful death."

And now hath he cloth'd him in cope and in pall,
And the chapter of Durham has met at his call.
"And hear ye not, brethren," the proud bishop


"That our vassal, the Danish count Witikind's

All his gold and his goods hath he given
To holy church for the love of heaven,
And hath founded a chantry with stipend and dole,
That priests and that beadsmen may pray for his


Harold his son is wandering abroad,

Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God;
Meet it is not, that such should heir
The lands of the church on the Tyne and the Wear;
And at her pleasure, her hallow'd hands
May now resume these wealthy lands."--

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old,
"Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold;
Ever renown blows a note of fame,

And a note of fear, when she sounds his name:
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe
Have been their lot who have waked his wrath.
Leave him these lands and lordships still,
Heaven in its hour may change his will;
But if reft of gold, and of living bare,
An evil counsellor is despair.
More had he said, but the prelate frown'd,
And murmur'd his brethren, who sate around,
And with one consent have they giv'n their doom,
That the church should the lands of St. Cuthbert

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