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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 ane womyn workyng for her breidde

For him to wedde would not be wyse.
So he turnit his horsis heidde about,

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.
Quod hee, “ It wals the May herselle,

I know it by her saucye saye;
But go you back and courte her welle,

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
Of quhat is welle myne rychte to aske,

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 the walletis daddít rounde and rounde,

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 ;
And soche ane chaice in soche ane plaice,

Ladye shall nevir behoulde againe.
Till the Lairde, in black despaire and rage,

Flung himselle fercely fro his steidde,
Then threwe the bryddle fro his graspe,

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,
But it wals als hotte and sharpe to beir,

Als asches fro the graitte of helle.
Then the beggir he lauchit ane wycked lauche,

Als the Lairde he jumpit lyke ane possessit,
And the beggir had nothyng more to doo

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,
But his horse wold not lette him come neirre-

No, not wythin ane half a mylle.
But quherre he fledde, or quherre he spedde,

I nevir colde lerne with all myne lore,
But hee nevir sette uppe his faice agayne,

And nevir wals seine in Scotlande more.

But wo be to that May Mariote!

Quhatis to be wonne at womanis hande!
For sho has wedded that beggir knaiffe,

And maide him lorde of alle hir lande!

For quha wals hee but the Knychte of Home,

The dreade of all the Border boundis,
Quham that connyng May had warnyt weille

To watche the Lairde in alle his roundis.

And the pretendit mylleris mere.

Wals the ae best beste that evir wals born;
Oft had sho broke the English rankis,

And laid theyre leideris all forlorne.

May nevir ane braggarde bruike the glaive

That beste befyttis ane nobyll hande
And everye lovir losse the daime

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.



I DARE thee to forget me! go wander where thou wilt,
Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the sabre's hilt;
Away! thou’rt free! o'er land and sea, go rush to danger's brink !
But oh, thou canst not fly from thought ! thy curse will be to think!
Remember me! remember all-my long-enduring love,
That link'd itself to perfidy; the vulture and the dove!
Remember in thy utmost need, I never once did shrink,
But clung to thee confidingly; thy curse shall be-to think!
Then go! that thought will render thee a dastard in the fight,
That thought, when thou art tempest-tost, will fill thee with assright;
In some vile dungeon mayst thou lie, and, counting each cold link
That binds thee to captivity, thy curse shall be—to think !
Go! seek the merry banquet-hall, where younger

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,
The memory of other days will gall thee while they sing ;
The airs I used to love will make thy coward conscience shrink,
Aye, ev'ry note will have its sting—thy curse will be--to think !
Forget me! No, that shall not be! I'll haunt thee in thy sleep,
In dreams thou'lt cling to slimy rocks that overhang the deep;
Thou'lt shriek for aid! my feeble arm shall hurl thee from the brink,
And when thou wak’st in wild dismay, thy curse will be—to think!



Tacete, tacete, O suoni triumfanti!
Risvegliate in vano 'l cor che non può liberarsi.

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit,

On eagle-wings, through every plume that thrill?
It hath no crown of victory to inherit

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 mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling,

To sink so fast, so heavily again!
No sounds for Earth ?-Yes, to young Chieftain dying

On his own battle-field at set of sun,'
With his freed Country's Banner o'er him flying,

Well mightst thou speak of Fame's high guerdon won.
No sounds for Earth ?—Yes, for the Martyr leading

Unto victorious Death serenely on,
For Patriot by his rescued Altars bleeding,

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.
But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating

Against Life's narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For Power, for Joy, high Hope, and rapturous greeting,

Thou wak’st lone thirst-be hush’d, exulting strain.
Be hush'd, or breathe of Grief!-of Exile-yearnings

Under the willows of the stranger-shore;
Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings,

For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.
Breathe of deep Love-a lonely Vigil keeping

Through the night-hours o'er wasted health to pine;
Rich thoughts and sad like faded rose-leaves heaping,

In the shut heart, at once a Tomb and Shrine.
Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing

From Worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undying-

Of Joy no more--bewildering Harmony !

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