Hardyknute. an Heroic Ballad, Part I

Stately stept he east the ha, And stately stept he west; Full seventy yeirs he now had sene, With scerce sevin yeirs of rest. He livit whan Britons breach of faith Wrocht 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 gudely chambers fair to see, Whar he lodgit mony a knicht. His dame sa peirles anes, and fair, For chaste, and bewtie, sene, Na marrow had in a the land, Save Emergard the quene.

Full thirtein sons to him she bare, All men of valour stout, In bluidy ficht, with sword in hand, Nyne lost their lives bot doubt; Four yit remaind; lang mote they live To stand by liege and land: Hie was their fame, hie was their micht, And hie was their command.

Greit luve they bare to Fairly fair, Their sister saft and deir, Her girdle shawd her middle jimp, And gowdin glist her hair. What waefou wae her bewtie bred! Waefou to young and auld, Waefou I trow to kyth and kin, As story ever tauld.

The king of Norse, in summer tide, Puft up with pouir and micht, Landed in fair Scotland the yle, Wi mony a hardie knicht. The tidings to our gude Scots king Came as he sat at dyne With noble chiefs in braive aray, Drinking the bluid red wyne.

"To horse, to horse, my royal liege! "Your faes stand on the strand; "Full twenty thousand glittering speirs "The cheifs of Norse command. "Bring me my steid Mage dapple gray." Our gude king raise and cryd: A trustier beist in all the land, A Scots king nevir seyd.

"Gae, little page, tell Hardyknute, "Wha lives on hill sa 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; 'Cum down, cum down, lord Hardyknute, 'And red your 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 danger grit to do. He has tane a horn as grene as grass, And gien five sounds sa shrill, That tries in grene wode shuke thereat, Sae loud rang ilka hill.

His sons in manly sport and glie Had past the summer's morn; Whan lo! down in a grassy dale, They heard their father's horn. 'That horn, quoth they, neir sounds in peace, 'We have other sport to bide;' And sune they hied them up the hill, And sune were at his side.

"Late, late yestrene, I weind in peace "To end my lengthend lyfe; "My age micht well excuse my arm "Frae manly feats of stryfe: "But now that Norse does proudly boast "Fair Scotland to enthral, "It's neir be said of Hardyknute, "He feird to fecht or fall.

"Robin of Rothsay bend thy bow, "Thy arrows shute sa leil, "That mony a comely countenance "They've turn'd to deidly pale. "Braive Thomas taike ye but your lance, "Ye neid na weapons mair; "Gif ye fecht wi't, as ye did anes, "Gainst Westmoreland's ferce heir.

"And Malcolm, licht of fute as stag "That runs in forest wilde, "Get me my thousands thrie of men "Weil bred to sword and shield: "Bring me my horse and harnisine, "My blade of metal clere." If faes but kend the hand it bare, They sune had fled for feir.

"Farewil my dame sae peirless gude," And tuke her by the hand, "Fairer to me in age you seim "Than maids for bewtie famd: "My youngest son sall here remain, "To guard these stately touirs, "And shute the silver bolt that keips "Sae fast your painted bowers."

And first she wet her comely cheiks, And then her boddice grene; The silken cords of twirtle twist Were plet with silver shene; And apron set with mony a dyce Of neidle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, Save that of Fairly fair.

And he has ridden our muir and moss, Our hills and mony a glen, When he cam to a wounded knicht, Making a heavy mane: 'Here maun I lye, here maun I dye 'By treacheries fause gyles; 'Witless I was that eir gave faith 'To wicked woman's smyles.'

"Sir knicht, gin ye were in my bouir, "To lean on silken seat, "My lady's kindlie care you'd pruve "Wha neir kend deidly hate; "Hirsell wald watch ye all the day, "Hir maids at deid of nicht; "And Fairly fair your heart would cheir, "As she stands in your ficht.

"Arise young knicht, and mount your steid, "Bricht lows the shynand day; "Chuse frae my menie wham ye pleise, "To leid ye on the way." Wi smyless luik, and visage wan The wounded knicht replyd, 'Kind chieftain your intent pursue, 'For heir I maun abide.

'To me nae after day nor nicht 'Can eir be sweit or fair; 'But sune benethe sum draping trie, 'Cauld dethe sall end my care.' Still him to win strave Hardyknute, Nor strave he lang in vain; Short pleiding eithly micht prevale, Him to his lure to gain.

"I will return wi speid to bide, "Your plaint and mend your wae: "But private grudge maun neir be quelled, "Before our countries fae. "Mordac, thy eild may best be spaird "The fields of stryfe fraemang; "Convey Sir knicht to my abode, "And meise his egre pang."

Syne he has gane far hynd, out owr Lord Chattan's land sae wyde; That lord a worthy wicht was ay, Whan faes his courage seyd: Of Pictish race, by mother's side: Whan Picts ruled Caledon, Lord Chattan claim'd the princely maid When he sav'd Pictish crown.

Now with his ferce and stalwart train He recht a rising hicht, Whar brad encampit on the dale, Norse army lay in sicht; "Yonder my valiant sons, full ferce "Our raging rievers wait, "On the unconquerit Scottish swaird "To try with us their fate.

"Mak orisons to him that sav'd "Our sauls upon the rude; "Syne braively shaw your veins are filld "Wi Caledonian bluid." Then furth he drew his trustie glaive, While thousands all around, Drawn frae their sheiths glanc'd in the sun, And loud the bugils sound.

To join his king, adown the hill In haste his march he made, While playand pibrochs minstrals meit Afore him stately strade. 'Thrise welcum, valiant stoup of weir, 'Thy nation's sheild and pride, 'Thy king na reasoun has to feir, 'Whan thou art by his side.

Whan bows were bent, and darts were thrawn, For thrang scerce cold they flie, The darts clave arrows as they met, Eir faes their dint mote drie. Lang did they rage, and fecht full ferce, Wi little skaith to man; But bluidy, bluidy was the feild Or that lang day was done!

The king of Scots that findle bruik'd The war that luik'd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Sen bows seim'd but delay. Quoth noble Rothsay, 'Mine I'll keep, 'I wate it's bleid a score.' "Haste up my merrie men," cry'd the king, As he rade on before.

The king of Norse he socht to find, Wi him to mense the faucht; But on his forehead there did licht A sharp unsonsie shaft: As he his hand pat up to feil The wound, an arrow kein, O waefu chance! there pind his hand In midst atweene his eyne.

'Revenge! revenge!' cryd Rothsay's heir, 'Your mail-coat sall nocht bide 'The strenth and sharpness of my dart,' Whilk shared the reiver's side. Anither arrow weil he mark'd It perc'd 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: Wa to the knicht he ettled at; Lament now quene Elgreid; Hire dames to wail your darling's fall, His youth, and comely meid.

'Tak aff, tak aff his costly jupe,' (Or gold well was it twin'd, Knit like the fowler's net, throuch whilk His steily harnes shynd.) 'Beir Norse that gift frae me, and bid 'Him venge the bluid it weirs; 'Say if he face my bended bow 'He sure nae weapon feirs.'

Proud Norse with giant body tall, Braid shoulder, and arms strong; Cryd, 'Whar is Hardyknute sae famd, 'And feird at Britain's throne? 'Tho Britons tremble at his name, 'I sune sall mak him wail, 'That eir my sword was made sae sharp, 'Sae saft his coat of mail.

That brag his stout heart could na bide, It lent him youthfu micht: "I'm Hardyknute. This day," he cryed, "To Scotland's king I hicht "To lay thee law as horse's hufe; "My word I mean to keip:" Syne with the first dint eir he strake He gar'd his body bleid.

Norse ene like grey gosehauk staird wilde, He sich'd wi shame and spyte; 'Disgrac'd is now my far famd arm 'That left thee pouir to stryke.' Syne gied his helm a blow sae fell, It made him down to stoup, Sae law as he to ladies us'd, In courtly gyse to lout.

Full sune he rais'd his bent body; His bou he marveld sair, Sen blaws till than on him but dar'd As touch of Fairly fair. Norse ferlied too as sair as he, To see his stately luik; Sae sune as eir he strake a fae, Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.

Whar, like a fyre to hether set, Bauld Thomas did advance, A sturdy fae, with luik enrag'd, Up towards him did prance. He spurd his steid through thickest ranks The hardy youth to quell; Wha srude unmuvit at his approach His furie to repell.

'That short brown shaft, sae meinly trimd, 'Lukes like poor Scotland's geir; 'But dreadfu seims the rusty point!' And loud he leuch in jeir. "Aft Britons blude has dim'd its shyne "It's point cut short their vaunt." Syne perc'd the boster's bairded cheik Nae time he tuke to taunt.

Short while he in his sadil swang; His stirrip was nae stay, But feible hang his unbent knie, Sair taken he was, fey! Swyth on the harden'd clay he fell, Richt far was heard the thud; But Thomas luk'd not as he lay All waltering in his blude.

Wi careles gesture, mind unmuv'd, On rade he north the plain His seim in peace, or fercest stryfe, Ay reckless, and the same. Nor yit his heart dames' dimpeld cheik Cold meise saft luve to bruik; Till vengefu Ann returnd his scorn, Then languid grew his luke.

In thrauis of dethe, wi wallow'd cheik, All panting on the plain, The bleiding corps of warriours lay, Neir to arise again: Neir to return to native land; Na mair wi blythsum sounds To boast the glories of that day, And shaw their shynand wounds.

There on a lee, whar stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands fu ferce, that summer's day, Fill'd kene wars black intent. Let Scots while Scots praise Hardyknute Let Norse the name aye dreid; Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird, Sall latest ages reid.

On Norway's coast the widow'd dame May wash the rocks wi teirs, May lang luke owr the shiples seas Before her mate appeirs. Ceise, Emma, ceise to hope in vain, Thy lord lyes in the clay; The valiant Scots na rievers thole To carry lyfe away.

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind, Sair beat the heavy shouir, Mirk grew the nicht ere Hardyknute Wan neir his stately touir: His touir that us'd wi torches bleise To shyne sae far at nicht Seim'd now as black as mourning weid: Na marvel sair he sich'd.

"There's na licht in my lady's bouir, "There's na licht in my ha; "Na blynk shynes round my Fairly fair, "Na ward stands on my wa. "What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say." Na answer fits their dreid. "Stand back my sons I'll be your gyde." But by they past wi speid.

"As fast I ha sped owr Scotland's faes—" There ceis'd his brag of weir, Sair shamd to mind ocht but his dame, And maiden Fairly fair. Black feir he felt, but what to feir He wist nae yit wi dreid: Sair shuke his body, fair his limbs And a the warriour flied.