A FRAGMENT OF AN OLD HEROIC BALLAD

STATELY stept he east the wa',

And stately stept he west;
Full seventy years he now had seen,
With scarce seven years of rest.

He lived when Britons' breach of faith
Wrought Scotland meikle wae;

And aye his sword tauld to their cost
He was their deadly fae.

Hie on a hill his castle stude,

With halls and towers a-hight, And guidly chambers fair to see Where he lodged mony a knight. His dame, sae peirless anes and fair For chaste and beauty deimt, Nae marrow had in all the land Save Elenor the Queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare,

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"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 Madge dapple-gray,' 45 Our gude King raise and cryed; 'A trustier beast in all the land A Scots king never seyed!

'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 master's arm:

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'Come doun, come doun, Lord Hardyknute,

And redd your king frae harm!'

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All men of valour stout:

In bluidy fight, with sword in hand, Nyne lost their lives bot doubt.

Four yet remain; lang may they live To stand by liege and land!

Hie was their fame, hie was their might, And hie was their command.

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And soon they hied them up the hill,

And soon were at his syde.

Great love they bare to Fairly fair,

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Their sister saft and deir:

It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute

He feared to fight or fall!

'Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,

Thy arrows shoot so leal,

Mony a comely countenance

They have turned to deidly pale.

Brave Thomas, tak' ye but your lance, Ye neid nae weapons mair

Gif ye fight wi't as ye did anes
'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir.
'And Malcom, light of foot as stag
That runs in forest wyld,

Get me my thousands three of men
Well bred to sword and shield.
Bring me my horse and harnisine,

Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute;
Let Norse the name aye dreid:
Aye how he faught, aft how he spared,
Sall latest ages reid.

Now loud and chill blew westlin' wind,
Sair beat the heavy showir,

Mirk grew the night e'ir Hardyknute
Wan near his stately tower.

His tower, that used with torches' bleise

To shine sae far at night,

Seimed now as black as mourning weed, Nae marvel sair he sigh't.

'There's nae light in my lady's bouir,
There's nae light in my hall;

Nae blink shynes round my Fairly fair,
Nor ward stands on my wall.

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What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say!' 325 Nae answer fits their dreid.

'Stand back, my sons, I'll be your guide.

But by they passed with speid.

'As fast as I've sped owre Scotland's faes . . .'

There ceist his brag of weir,

Sair shamed to mynd aught but his dame And maiden Fairly fair.

Black fear he felt but what to fear

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He wist not; yet with dreid

Sair shook his body, sair his limbs,

And all the warrior fled.

1719(?), 1724

Allan Ramsay (1686–1758)

MY PEGGY IS A YOUNG THING

My Peggy is a young thing,

Just entered in her teens,

Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay;

My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare,
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow,
At wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look down on a' the town,

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THE LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND

GI'E me a lass with a lump of land,

And we for life shall gang thegither; Though daft or wise I'll never demand,

Or black or fair it maks na whether. I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade, And blood alane is no worth a shilling; But she that 's rich, her market's made, For ilka charm about her is killing. Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,

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And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; 10 Gin I had anes her gear in my hand,

Shou'd love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand, I hate with poortith, though bonny, to meddle;

Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land, 15 They 'se never get me to dance to their fiddle.

There's meikle good love in bands and bags, And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,

Have tint the art of gaining affection. 20 Love tips his arrows with woods and parks, And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows;

And naithing can catch our modern sparks, But well-tochered lasses, or jointured

widows.

A. 'Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yel-
low,

As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55
The apple frae its rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair, fair indeed thy
luve,

In flow'ry bands thou didst him fet

ter; Though he was fair, and weil beluved again

Than me he never luved thee better. 60 Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome mar

row,

Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of

Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of
Yarrow.'

C. 'How can I busk, a bonny bonny
bride?
How can I busk, a winsome marrow?

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