And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett
Within the lists soe broad;

And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
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.

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

That had reskewed her from thrall.

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.

Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare,

Thou art a leeche of skille;

Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,

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

But when she found her comelye knighte
Indeed was dead and gone,

She lavde 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 so deare.

Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune,
And with a deep-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle heart in twayne
Fayre Christabelle did dye.

ह

[This ballad is taken from The Minstrelsy of the Scot tish Border,' where it was given, as never before published, partly from one, under the same title, in Mrs. Brown's Collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity, penes Edit. The stanzas appearing to possess most merit were selected from each copy.' It is to be regretted that Sir Walter Scott did not give the two versions in their genuine state rather than a third made up of them. Some idea, however, of what they were may be gotten from comparing the ballad, as given by him, with what Mr. Motherwell calls 'a less complete version' of it, which he prints in his Minstrelsy,' under the title of The Jolly Goshawk.' With regard to the story, there is,' Sir Walter Scott says, 'some resemblance betwixt it and an Irish Fairy Tale, called The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland.' The princess, being desperately in love with Carral, despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, resting upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the Princess of Scotland.]

WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk,

Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear,

"O have ye tint, at tournament,
Your sword, or yet your spear?
Or mourn ye for the Southern lass,
Whom you may not win near?'

"I have not tint, at tournament,
My sword, nor yet my spear;
But sair I mourn for my true love,
Wi' mony a bitter tear.

"But weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk,

Ye can baith speak and flee;

Ye sall carry a letter to my love,
Bring an answer back to me.'

"But how sall I your true love find,
Or how suld I her know?

I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake,
An eye that ne'er her saw."

"O weel sall ye my true love ken,
Sae sune as ye her see;

For, of a' the flowers of fair England,
The fairest flower is she.

"The red, that's on my true love's cheik,
Is like blood drops on the snaw;
The white, that is on her breast bare,
Like the down o' the white sea-maw.

"And even at my love's bour door
There grows a flowering birk;
And ye maun sit and sing thereon
As she gangs to the kirk.

"And four-and-twenty fair ladyes
Will to the mass repair;

But well may ye my ladye ken,

The fairest ladye there."

Lord William has written a love letter,

Put it under his pinion gray;

And he is awa' to Southern land

As fast as wings can gae.

And even at that ladye's bour
There grew a flowering birk;
And he sat down and sung thereon

And weel he kent that ladye fair

Amang her maidens free;

For the flower, that springs in May morning, Was not sae sweet as she.

He lighted at the ladye's gate,
And sat him on a pin ;

And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love,
Till a' was cosh within.

And first he sang a low low note,
And syne he sang a clear;
And the o'erword o' the sang

aye

Was-"Your love can no win here."

"Feast on, feast on, my maidens a',
The wine flows you amang,
While I gang to my shot-window,
And hear yon bonnie bird's sang.

Sing on, sing on, my bonnie bird,
The sang ye sung yestreen:

For weel I ken, by your sweet singing,
Ye are frae my true love seen.'

O first he sang a merry sang,

And syne he sang a grave;

And syne he peck'd his feathers gray,
To her the letter gave.

"Have there a letter from lord William:

He says he's sent ye three,

He canna wait your love langer,
But for your sake he'll die."

"Gae bid him bake his bridal bread,
And brew his bridal ale;

And I shall meet him at Mary's kirk,
Lang, lang ere it be stale.'

The lady's gane to her chamber,
And a moanfu' woman was she;
As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,
And were about to die.

"A boon, a boon, my father deir A boon I beg of thee!"

Ask not that paughty Scottish lord,