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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry

consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date
  

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XVII. HARDYKNUTE.
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94

XVII. HARDYKNUTE.

A Scottish Fragment.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

As this fine morsel of heroic poetry hath generally past for ancient, it is here thrown to the end of our earliest pieces; that such as doubt of its age, may the better compare it with other pieces of genuine antiquity. For after all, there is more than reason to suspect, that most of its beauties are of modern date; and that these at least (if not its whole existence) have flowed from the pen of a lady, within this present century. The following particulars may be depended on. One Mrs. Wardlaw, whose maiden name was Halket (aunt to the late Sir Peter Halket of Pitferran in Scotland, who was killed in America along with general Bradock in 1755) pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. A suspicion arose that it was her own composition. Some able judges asserted it to be modern. The lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. Being desired to shew an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the three last beginning with “Loud and schrill,” &c. which were not in the copy that was first printed, The late Lord President Forbes, and Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto (late Lord Justice Clerk for Scotland) who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expence of publishing the first Edition, which came out in folio about the year 1720.—This account is transmitted from Scotland by a gentleman of distinguished rank, learning, and genius, who yet is of opinion, that part of the ballad may be ancient; but retouched and much enlarged by the lady abovementioned. Indeed he hath been informed, that the late William Thompson, the Scottish musician, who


95

published the Orpheus Caledonius, 1733, 2 vols. 8vo. declared he had heard fragments of it repeated during his infancy; before ever Mrs. Wardlaw's copy was heard of.

Stately stept he east the wa,
And stately stept he west,
Full seventy zeirs he now had sene,
With skerss sevin zeirsof rest.
He livit quhen Britons breach of faith
Wroucht Scotland meikle wae:
And ay 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 guidly chambers fair to se,
Quhair he lodgit mony a knicht.
His dame sae peirless anes and fair,
For chast and bewtie deimt,
Nae marrow had in all the land,
Saif Elenor the quene.
Full thirtein sons to him scho bare,
All men of valour stout;
In bluidy ficht with sword in hand
Nyne lost their lives bot doubt:
Four zit remain, lang may they live
To stand by liege and land;
Hie was their fame, hie was their micht,
And hie was their command.

96

Great luve they bare to Fairly fair,
Their sister fast and deir,
Her girdle shawd her midle gimp,
And gowden glist her hair.
Quhat waefou wae her bewtie bred?
Waefou to zung and auld,
Waufou I trow to kyth and kyn,
As story ever tauld.
The king of Norse in summer tyde,
Puft up with powir and micht,
Landed in fair Scotland the yle,
With mony a hardy knicht.
The tydings to our gude Scots king
Came, as he sat at dyne,
With noble chiefs in braif aray,
Drinking the blude-reid wine.
“To horse, to horse, my ryal liege,
Zours faes stand on the strand,
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands.”
Bring me my steed Mage dapple gray,
Our gude king raise and cryd,
A trustier beast in all the land
A Scots king nevir seyd.

97

Go little page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives on hill so hie,
To draw his sword, the dreid of faes,
And haste and follow me.
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his masters arm,
“Cum down, cum down, lord Hardyknute,
And rid zour king frae harm.”
Then reid reid grew his dark-brown cheiks,
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
His luiks grew kene, as they were wont
In dangers great to do;
He hes tane a horn as green as glass,
And gien five sounds sae shrill,
That treis in grene wood schuke thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.
His sons in manly sport and glie,
Had past that summers morn,
Quhen low down in a grassy dale,
They heard their fatheris horn.
That horn, quod they, neir sounds in peace,
We haif other sport to byde.
And sune they heyd them up the hill,
And sune were at his syde.

98

“Late late the zestrene I weind in peace
To end my lengthned life,
My age micht weil excuse my arm
Frae manly feats of stryfe;
But now that Norse dois proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall,
Its neir be said of Hardyknute,
He feard to ficht or fall.
“Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows schute sae leil,
That mony a comely countenance
They haif turnd to deidly pale.
Brade Thomas tak ze but zour lance,
Ze neid nae weapons mair,
Gif ze ficht we' it as ze did anes
Gainst Westmorlands ferss heir.
“And Malcom, licht of fute as stag
That runs in forest wyld,
Get me my thousands thrie of men
Well bred to sword and schield:
Bring me my horse and harnisine
My blade of mettal cleir.
If faes kend but the hand it bare,
They sune had fled for feir.

99

“Fareweil my dame sae peirless gude,
(And tuke her by the hand),
Fairer to me in age zou seim,
Than maids for bewtie famd:
My zoungest son shall here remain
To guard these stately towirs,
And shut the silver bolt that keips
Sae fast zour painted bowirs.”
And first scho wet her comely cheiks,
And then her boddice grene,
Hir silken cords of twirtle twist,
Weil plett with silver schene;
And apron sett with mony a dice
Of neidle-wark sae rare,
Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess,
Saif that of Fairly fair.
And he has ridden owre muir and moss,
Owre hills and mony a glen,
Quhen he came to a wounded knicht
Making a heavy mane;
“Here maun I lye, here maun I dye,
By treacheries false gyles;
Witless I was that eir gaif faith
To wicked womans smyles.”

100

“Sir knicht, gin ze were in my bowir,
To lean on silken seat,
My laydis kyndlie care zoud prove,
Quha neir kend deidly hate:
Hir self wald watch ze all the day,
Hir maids a deid of nicht;
And Fairly fair zour heart wald cheir,
As scho stands in zour sicht.
“Aryse young knicht, and mount zour steid,
Full lowns the shynand day:
Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis
To leid ze on the way.”
With smyless luke, and visage wan
The wounded knicht replyd,
“Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue,
For heir I maun abyde.
To me nae after day nor nicht
Can eir be sweit or fair,
But sune beneath sum draping tree,
Cauld death shall end my care.”
With him nae pleiding micht prevail;
Brave Hardyknute in to gain,
With fairest words and reason strong,
Strave courteously in vain.

101

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre
Lord Chattans land sae wyde;
That lord a worthy wicht was ay,
Quhen faes his courage seyd:
Of Pictish race by mothers syde,
Quhen Picts ruld Caledon,
Lord Chattan claimd the princely maid,
Quhen he saift Pictish crown.
Now with his ferss and stalwart train,
He reicht a rysing heicht,
Quhair braid encampit on the dale,
Norss menzie lay in sicht.
“Zonder my valiant sons and ferss,
Our raging revers wait
On the unconquerit Scottish swaird
To try with us their fate.
Make orisons to him that saift
Our sauls upon the rude;
Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filld
With Caledonian blude.”
Then furth he drew his trusty glaive,
Quhyle thousands all around
Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun,
And loud the bougills sound.

102

To join his king adoun the hill
In hast his merch he made,
Quhyle, play and pibrochs, minstralls meit
Afore him statly strade.
“Thryse welcum valziant stoup of weir,
Thy nations scheild and pryde;
Thy king nae reason has to feir
Quhen thou art be his syde.”
Then bows were bent and darts were thrawn;
For thrang scarce could they flie;
The darts clove arrows as they met,
The arrows dart the trie.
Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss,
With little skaith to man,
But bludy bludy was the field,
Or that lang day was done.
The king of Scots, that sindle bruikd
The war that luikt lyke play,
Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow,
Sen bows seimt but delay.
Quoth noble Rothsay, “Myne i'll keip,
I wate its bleid a skore.”
Hast up my merry men, cryd the king,
As he rade on before.

103

The king of Norse he socht to find,
With him to mense the faucht,
But on his forehead there did licht
A sharp unsonsie shaft;
As he his hand put up to find
The wound, an arrow kene,
O waefou chance! there pinnd his hand
In midst betweene his ene.
“Revenge, revenge, cryd Rothsays heir,
Your mail-coat sall nocht byde
The strength and sharpness of my dart:”
Then sent it thruch his syde.
Another arrow weil he markd,
It persit his neck in twa,
His hands then quat the silver reins,
He law as eard did fa.
“Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleids!”
Again with micht he drew
And gesture dreid his sturdy bow,
Fast the braid arrow flew:
Wae to the knicht he ettled at;
Lament now quene Elgreid;
Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall,
His zouth and comely meid.

104

“Take aff, take aff his costly jupe
(Of gold weil was it twynd,
Knit lyke the fowlers net, throuch quhilk
His steilly harness shynd)
Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid
Him venge the blude it beirs;
Say, if he face my bended bow,
He sure nae weapon feirs.”
Proud Norse with giant body tall,
Braid shoulder and arms strong,
Cry'd, “Quhair is Hardyknute sae famd,
And feird at Britains throne:
Thah Britons tremble at his name,
I sune sall make him wail,
That eir my sword was made sae sharp,
Sae saft his coat of mail.”
That brag his stout heart could na byde,
It lent him zouthfou micht:
“I'm Hardyknute; this day, he cry'd,
To Scotland's king I hecht
To lay thee law, as horses hufe;
My word I mean to keip.”
Syne with the first strakeeir he strake,
He garrd his body bleid.

105

Norse ene lyke gray gosehawke staird wyld,
He sicht with shame and spyte;
“Disgrac'd is now my far-fam'd arm
That left thee power to stryke:”
Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell,
It made him doun to stoup,
As law as he to ladies usit
In courtly gyse to lout.
Full sune he raisd his bent body,
His bow he marvelld sair,
Sen blaws till then on him but darrd
As touch of Fairly fair:
Norse ferliet too as sair as he
To se his stately luke;
Sae sune as eir he strake a fae,
Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.
Quhair lyke a fyre to hether set,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
A sturdy fae with luke enrag'd
Up towards him did prance;
He spurd his steid throw thickest ranks
The hardy zouth to quell,
Quha stude unmufit at his approach
His furie to repell.

106

“That schort brown shaft sae meanly trim'd,
Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir,
But dreidfull seems the rusty point!”
And loud he leuch in jeir.
“Aft Britons blude has dimd its shyne;
This poynt cut short their vaunt:”
Syne pierc'd the boisteris bairded cheik;
Nae tyme he tuke to taunt.
Schort quhyle he in his sadill swang,
His stirrup was nae stay,
Sae feible hang his unbent knee
Sure taken he was fey:
Swith on the hardened clay he fell,
Richt far was heard the thud:
But Thomas luikt not as he lay
All waltering in his blude.
With cairles gesture, mynd unmuvit,
On raid he north the plain;
His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe,
Quhen winner ay the same:
Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik
Could meise saft love to bruik,
Till vengeful Ann returnd his scorn,
Then languid grew his luke.

107

In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik
All panting on the plain,
The fainting corps of warriours lay,
Neir to aryse again;
Neir to return to native land,
Nae mair with blythsom sounds
To boist the glories of the day,
And schaw their shining wounds.
On Norways coast the widowit dame
May wash the rocks with teirs,
May lang luke owre the schiples seis
Befoir hir mate appears.
Ceife, Emma, ceise to hope in vain;
Thy lord lyis in the clay;
The valziant Scots nae revers thole
To carry lyfe away.
There on a lie, quhair stands a cross
Set up for monument,
Thousands full fierce that summers day
Filld kene waris black intent.
Let Scots, quhyle Scots, praise Hardyknute,
Let Norse the name ay dreid,
Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,
Sal latest ages reid.

108

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind,
Sair beat the heavy showir,
Mirk grew the nicht eir Hardyknute
Wan neir his stately towir.
His towir that usd with torches bleise
To shyne sae far at nicht,
Seimd now as black as mourning weid,
Nae marvel sair he sichd.
“Thairs nae licht in my ladys bowir,
Thairs nae licht in my hall;
Nae blink shynes round my Fairly fair,
Nor ward stands on my wall.
“Quhat bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say;”—
Nae answer fits their dreid.
“Stand back, my sons, I'll be zour gyde:”
But by they past with speid.
“As fast I haif sped owre Scotlands faes,”—
There ceist his brag of weir,
Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his dame,
And maiden Fairly fair.
Black feir he felt, but quhat to feir
He wist not zit with dreid;
Sair schuke his body, sair his limbs,
And all the warrior fled.

109

[_]

Since this poem of Hardyknute was first printed off, still farther information has been received concerning the original manner of its publication, and the additions made to it afterwards.

“The late Dr. John Clerk, a celebrated physician in Edinburgh, one of Lord President Forbes's intimate companions, has left in his own hand writing, an ample account of all the additions and variations made in this celebrated poem, as also two additional stanzas never yet printed.”

The title of the first edition was, “Hardyknute, a Fragment. Edinburgh. 1719.”

folio. 12 pages.

Stanzas not in the first edition, but added afterwards in the Evergreen, 1724, 120. are the two, beginning at ver. 129. “Aryse young knicht, &c. to ver. 144.—Instead of ver. 143, 144, as they stand at present, Dr. Clerk's MS. has

With argument, but vainly strave
Lang courteously in vain.

Again, from ver. 153. Now with his ferss, &c. to 176, are not in the first edit.—In Dr. Clerk's MS. ver. 170, &c. runs thus,

In haste his strides he bent
While minstrells play and pibrocks fine
Afore him stately went.

Lastly, from ver. 257. Quhair lyke a fyre, &c. to the end of the poem, were not in the 1st copy. Variation of line the last (v. 336.) is

“He feared a' could be feared.”

The two additional stanzas come in between ver. 388. and v. 389. and are these,

Now darts flew wavering through slaw speed,
Scarce could they reach their aim;
Or reach'd, scarce blood the round point drew,
'Twas all but shot in vain:

110

Right strengthy arms forfeebled grew,
Sair wreck'd wi' that day's toils;
E'en fierce-born minds now lang'd for peace,
And curs'd war's cruel broils.
Yet still wars horns sounded to charge,
Swords clash'd and harness rang;
But saftly sae ilk blaster blew
The hills and dales fraemang.
Nae echo heard in double dints,
Nor the lang-winding horn,
Nae mair she blew out brade as she
Did eir that summers morn.

This obliging information the Reader owes to David Clerk, M. D. at Edinburgh, son of Dr. John Clerk.

It is perhaps needless to observe, that these two stanzas, as well as most of the variations above, are of inferior merit to the rest of the poem, and are probably first sketches that were afterwards rejected.