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Then the Lairde he made his horse to rerr,
And the beiste he snortit awsomelye; “ If maydin Mariote is withynne,
Go bid hir speike ane worde with mee. “ For I am the mychtie Lairde of Lonne,
The hero of the Scottish lande; And I am comit in cortesye,
To claim your winsum ladyis hande.” And then he maide his horse to spang,
Als though he wolde not renit bee, Quhille the graivell flewe lyke bullet shouris
It wals ane gallante sychte to se! The mayden squelit and keikit bye,
“ Och, sir! myne leddye is at her quheele, And sho moste spynne her daylie tasque,
Else sho and I can ne'er doo wele.
“ Sho is ane pore but thryftie daime,
Quha workethe out her daylie breidde; And hath no tyme to jaulke with ane
That cairryeth so hie ane heidde. “Quhan you can worke with spaidde and shole,
Or dryffe ane trade of honeste faime, Then come and woo myne ladye deire,
Till then speide back the gaite you caime." Then the Lairde of Lonne, he thochte it goode,
To take this connyng May's avyse,
For him to wedde would not be wyse.
Quha neither spangit nor caperit nowe, But the plomis upon the Lairdis helmette,
They noddit dourlye ower his browe. Then hee has gone to the Lorde of Marche,
And hee has toulde him all his taille; And that goode lorde hee laughit at him,
Quhile bothe his sydis were lyke to faille.
I know it by her saucye saye;
She may notte, can notte saye you naye. « And scho has Landale touir and toune,
Whitfielde, and Kelle, and Halsyngtonne Her very tythe of yearly rentis
Wolde purchesse all the landis of Lonne." The Lairde he ́mountit his gallant steidde,
And staitlye on his saddyll sette, He nevir styntit the lycht galloppe
Untille he came to the Landale yette.
He gaif his steidde untill ane manne,
And staitely strade into the halle, Resolvit to win that ladye fayre,
And her brode landis the best of alle.
And there he stode, and there he strode,
And often sent he benne his naime; But all that hee could saye or doo,
They wolde not bidde him to the daime. For the mirrye May she jinkit and jeerit,
And the oulde foteman gyrnit amaine, But the Lairde hee wolde not mofe one fote,
But manfullye hee did remaine.
At length May Mariote she caime downe,
Lyke ane brychte aingelle comit fro hevin, And askit howe he daurit intrude
Into a maydenis bower at eyin ?
Quod he, “ Myne deire and comelye daime,
I hidder come to maike demande
Youre maydene herte but and your hande..
« For I am the hero of fayse Scotlande,
No knychte can stande before myne armis, And welle it suittes the fayreste daime
To yielde the hero up hir charmis.”
“ If you be the hero of fair Scotlande,
Then woe to Scotlande and to mee! There is not ane manne on all myne lande
But wald thwacke youre hyde most hertilye. “ You haif caipperit at the tourneymentis,
And broken ane speire in ladyis sychte; But there is not ane knychte of nobyl blode
With gladdyautter bowis to fycht. “ To mete our meaneste Borderer's mychte,
The menne whose daylie worke is stryffe, Walde let you knowe quhat fychting is,
And plie youre helis for dethe or lyffe.” The Lairde he trampit with his footte,
Quhill all the hallis of Landale rung ; Madame," quod he, were you ane manne,
You sholde repente youre wyckede tongue. “ There is myne pledge, now taike it up
Als franklye als you se it throwne, And if you haif ane hero in fayre Scotlande,
I pledge myne lyff to bryng him downe !" “ I lift the gauntlet,” said the dame,
“ To-morrowe come to thyne dejeune, And pass you furthe to este or weste,
Or northe or southe, als sutis thyne tune,
And rounde and rounde the Landale touir
The Lairde and his pursuer flewe;
And raisit the stoure at every hewe.
And many a hard and hevvye knolle
Felle on the rumpe of the warre steidde, Whilom the braiffe hors gronit and ranne,
Holdyng out his taille, and eke his heidde.
Then wolde the beggir quhele aboutte,
To meite the Lairdis horse faice to faice; But the horse no sooner the beggir sawe,
Than spite of dethe he turnit the chaice, And rounde and rounde the Landale touir,
For the outter gatis were barrit amayne ;
Ladye shall nevir behoulde againe.
Flung himselle fercely fro his steidde,
Swearyng to bee the beggiris deidde. But footte to footte, and hande to hande,
The beggir mette him gallantlye; At the first buffe the beggir gatte,
The stoure lyke ane snowe-dryfte did flee, And it flewe intille the Lairdis two eyne,
Till feinte ane styme the Lairde colde se. But whidder it came fro pepper pocke,
Or beggiris pouche, hee colde not telle,
Als asches fro the graitte of helle.
Als the Lairde he jumpit lyke ane possessit,
But to laye on als lykit him best. Hee thwackit the Lairde, and hee daddit the Lairde,
And hee clouttit him quhille in wofull plychte. “You gaif me ane aumouss,” the beggir sayit,
“ So l’ll not taike thyne lyffe outrychte. “ But betydde mee weille, betydde mee wo,
Thyne glyttering garbe shalie go with mee, To teche thee challynge ane hombil beggir,
Quha wals not trobyling thyne nor thee.” He tyrelit the Lairde unto the boffe,
And buskit himselle in his fynerye, Then beltyd on his nobyl brande,
And wow but ane jollye beggir wals hee! But he lefte the Lairde his pykit kente,
His powlderit duddis, and pockis of meilleOch! nevir wals wooir so harde bestedde,
Or ane hauchtye herte broughte downe so weille!
He hathe clothit himselle in the beggiris duddis,
No oder remede had hee the whylle,
No, not wythin ane half a mylle.
I nevir colde lerne with all myne lore,
And nevir wals seine in Scotlande more.
But wo be to that May Mariote!
Quhatis to be wonne at womanis hande!
And maide him lorde of alle hir lande!
For quha wals hee but the Knychte of Home,
The dreade of all the Border boundis,
To watche the Lairde in alle his roundis.
And the pretendit mylleris mere.
Wals the ae best beste that evir wals born;
And laid theyre leideris all forlorne.
May nevir ane braggarde bruike the glaive
That beste befyttis ane nobyll hande
Who goes hir favour to commande !
The hero of this legend seems to have been Sir Alexander, the tenth knight of Home; for, on consulting the registers of that family, I find that he was married to Mariote, or Marriotta, sole daughter and heiress of Landale of Landale, in the county of Berwick,
J. H. Mount-Benger, March 12, 1830.
THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE.
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
I DARE thee to forget me! go wander where thou wilt,
maidens bloom, The thought of me shall make thee there endure a deeper gloom; That thought shall turn the festive cup to poison while you drink, And while false smiles are on thy cheek, thy curse will be to think!
Forget me! false one, hope it not! When minstrels touch the string,
BY MRS HEMANS.
Tacete, tacete, O suoni triumfanti!
Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit,
On eagle-wings, through every plume that thrill?
Be still, triumphant Harmony! be still!
Thine are no sounds for Earth, thus proudly swelling
Into rich floods of joy it is but pain
To sink so fast, so heavily again!
On his own battle-field at set of sun,'
Well mightst thou speak of Fame's high guerdon won.
Unto victorious Death serenely on,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.
Against Life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
Thou wak’st lone thirst-be hush’d, exulting strain.
Under the willows of the stranger-shore;
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.
Through the night-hours o'er wasted health to pine;
In the shut heart, at once a Tomb and Shrine.
From Worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Of Joy no more--bewildering Harmony !