The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,

That made him reele asyde;

Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,

145

And thrice she deeply sighde.

The soldan strucke a second stroke,
And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.

The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,
Which brought the knighte on his knee :
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.

The knighte he leapt upon his feete,
All recklesse of the pain:

Quoth hee, But heaven be now my speede,

Or else I shall be slaine.

150

155

He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte,

And spying a secrette part,

He drave it into the soldan's syde,

And pierced him to the heart.

Then all the people gave a shoute,

Whan they sawe the soldan falle: The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,

That had reskewed her from thrall.

160

165

And nowe the kinge with all his barons
Rose uppe from offe his seate,

And downe he stepped intò the listes,
That curteous knighte to greete.

But he for payne and lacke of bloude

Was fallen intò a swounde,

And there all walteringe in his gore,

Lay lifelesse on the grounde.

170

Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare,
Thou art a leeche of skille ;

Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,
Than this good knighte sholde spille.

Downe then steppeth that fayre ladyè,
To helpe him if she maye;

But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,

And shriekte and swound awaye.

Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes

When he heard his ladye crye,

O ladye, I am thine owne true love;
For thee I wisht to dye.

Then giving her one partinge looke,
He closed his eyes in death,

176

180

185

Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,
Begane to drawe her breathe.

199

But when she found her comelye knighte

Indeed was dead and gone,

She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,

And thus she made her moane:

O staye, my deare and onlye lord,
For mee thy faithfulle feere ;
'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,
Who hast bought my love soe deare.

Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune,

And with a deepe-fette sighe,

That burst her gentle hearte in twayne,

Fayre Christabelle did dye.

195

200

V.

EDWARD, EDWARD.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

From a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland.

QUHY dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,

Edward, Edward?

Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid ?

And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?

O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,

Mither, mither:

O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.

5

Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,

Edward, Edward.

10

Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,

My deir son I tell thee, O.

Mither, Mither:

O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,

O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,

Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,

That erst was sae fair and free, O.

15

O, I hae killed my fadir deir,

Edward, Edward:

Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,

Sum other dule ze drie, O.

Mither, mither:

20

O, I hae killed my fadir deir,

Alas! and wae is mee, O!

And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,

25

Edward, Edward?

And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?

My deir son, now tell me, O.

Ile set my feit in zonder boat,

Mither, mither:

30

Ile set my feit in zonder boat,

And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.

And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha’,

Edward, Edward?

And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', That were sae fair to see, O?

VOL. I.

23

36

Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',

Mither, mither:

Ile let thame stand till they doun fa',

For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.

40

And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, Edward, Edward?

And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?

The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
Mither, mither:

The warldis room, let thame beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.

And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,

Edward, Edward?

And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir ?
My deir son, now tell me, 0.

The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,

45

50

Mither, mither:

55

The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,

Sic counseils ze gave to me, 0.

This curious Song was transmitted to the Editor by Sir David Dalrymple, Bart. late Lord Hailes.