Her lover he put his horn to his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill;

And soon he saw his own merry men
Come riding over the hill.

Now hold thy hand, thou bold Baron,

I

pray thee, hold thy hand;

Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts,

Fast knit in true-love's band.

Thy daughter I have dearly loved
Full long, and many a day,—
But with such love as holy Church
Hath freely said we may.

O give consent she may be mine,
And bless a faithful pair;

My lands and livings are not small,

My house and lineage fair:

My mother she was an Earl's daughter;

A noble knight my sire.

The Baron he frowned, and turned away,

With mickle dole and ire.

Fair Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline wept,
And did all trembling stand:

At length she sprang upon her knee,
And held his lifted hand. *

Pardon, my Lord and father dear,

This fair young Knight and me:
Trust me, but for the carlish Knight,
I ne'er had fled from thee.

Oft have you called your Emmeline
Your darling and your joy:
O, let not, then, your harsh resolves
Your Emmeline destroy!

* See FRONTISPIECE.

The Baron he stroked his dark-brown cheek,

And turned his head aside,

To wipe away the starting tear

He proudly strove to hide.

In deep revolving thought he stood,
And mused a little space;

Then raised fair Emmeline from the ground,
With many a fond embrace.

Here! take her, Child of Elle, he said;

And gave her lily white hand,—
Here, take my dear and only child,
And with her, half my land.

Thy father once mine honour wronged,

In days of youthful pride:

Do thou the injury repair,

In fondness for thy bride!

And as thou love, and hold her dear,
Heaven prosper thee and thine!
And now my blessing wend with thee,
My lovely Emmeline !

PERCY.

HARDYKNUTE.

THIS celebrated and beautiful ballad first appeared anonymously in 1719. The date of the story refers to 1263; when Haco, king of Norway, made a descent on Scotland, and was defeated. Like many other beautiful compositions, it is, however, a modern forgery; and has been ascertained to be either the production of Lady Wardlaw, or of Sir John Nichols, who made use of her intervention in its publication. A second part, by Mr. Pinkerton, was published in 1781; which is inferior, upon the whole, but shews much ingenuity in seizing on a prominent point to establish a connexion between the two.

STATELY stept he east the Ha',
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 mickle woe,
And aye his sword told to their cost,
He was their deadly foe.

High on a hill his Castle stood,
Wi' halls and towers aheight,
And goodly chambers fair to see,
Where he lodged many a knight.

His dame, so peerless once, and fair,
For chaste, and beauty, sheen,
No marrow had in all the land,
Save Emergard the Queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bare,

All men of valour stout;

In bloody fight, wi' sword in hand,
Nine lost their lives no doubt.
Four yet remained; long mote they live
To stand by liege and land!

High was their fame, high was their might,
And high was their command.

Great love they bare to Fairly fair,
Their sister soft and dear,

Her girdle show'd her middle jimp,
And golden glist her hair.
What woeful woe her beauty bred !
Woeful to young and old;
Woeful I trow to kith and kin,
As story ever told.

The King of Norse, in summer tide,

Puft up with power and might,

Landed in fair Scotland the isle,
With many a hardy knight.
The tidings to our good Scot's King
Came as he sat at dine,

With noble chiefs, in brave array,
Drinking the blood-red wine.

To horse, to horse, my royal liege!
Your foes stand on the strand;
Full twenty thousand glittering spears
The Chiefs of Norse command.

* Equal.

Bring me my steed Madge dapple grey,
Our good king rose and cried:

A trustier beast in all the land

A Scot's King never did ride.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,
Who lives on hill so high,

To draw his sword, the dread of foes!
And haste and follow me.

The little page flew swift as dart

Flung by his master's arm;

Come down, come down, Lord Hardyknute, And rid your King from harm.

Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, So did his dark-brown brow;

His looks grew keen as they were wont

In danger great to do.

He has ta'en a horn as green as grass,
And given five sounds so shrill,
That trees in green-wood shook thereat,
So loud rang ilka hill.

His sons in manly sport and glee

Had past the summer's morn; When lo! down in a grassy dale

They heard their father's horn.

That horn, quoth they, ne'er sounds in peace,

We've other sport to bide;

And soon they hied them up the hill,

And soon were at his side.

Late yestere'en, I ween'd in peace

To end my lengthened life;
My age might well excuse my arm
From manly feats of strife: