new to English literature, though such poetical contests were common enough in the French poetry of the troubadours.

There the nightingale sang songs which to the listener seemed sweeter than those of harp or pipe.

The owl remained silent till evening, though her heart was bursting. Then, after singing, she asked :

'Hu dinc de nu bi mine songe? Wenst du dat ich ne cunne singe Dez ich ne cunne of writelinge?

zif ich de heolde on mine vote
So hit bi-tide dat ich mote
And du were ut of dine rise
Du scholdest singe an oder wise.'

'How seems it now of my singing?
Thinkest thou that I cannot sing
Though I know nothing of quaver-
ings?

If I held thee in my foot
So may it chance that I may

And thou wert out of thy branch
So shouldest thou sing in another
fashion.'

The nightingale upbraided the owl for her evil appearance.

'Di bodi is short, di sweore is smal,

Grettere is din heved dan du all;
Din ezen beod col-blake and brode

Rizt swo heo weren i-peint mid wode;

Du starest so du wille abiten

Al dat du mizt mid clivre smiten.'

Thy body is short, thy neck is small

Greater is thy head than all; Thine eyes are coal-black and broad

Just as if they were painted with woad;

Thou starest as if thou wilt bite All that thou with claws mayst smite.'

Then she sang again, loud and clear, like a harp.

Deos ule luste dider-ward

And heold hire eze neoder-ward
And set to-swolle and i-bolze

Also heo hadde on frogge i-swolze,

For heo wel wiste and was i-war
Dat heo song hire a bisemar.

The owl listened thitherward
And held her eyes the other way
And sat swollen and puffed
Just as if she had swallowed a
frog,

For well she knew and was aware
That she sang in mockery of her.

The owl tries to draw the nightingale from her cover.

'Whi neltu fleon into the bare

And schewi wheder unker beo
Of brister heowe, of vairur bleo?'

'Why wilt thou not fly into the

open,

And show which of us two

Is of brighter hue, of fairer colour?'

But the nightingale answers:

'No, ou havest wef scharpe clawe, Ne kepich noзt dat du me clawe;

Du havest clivers swide stronge,

Du twengst dar-mid so doða tonge.'

ful.

'No, thou hast very sharp claws,

I have no wish that thou shouldst claw me;

Thou hast claws very strong,

Thou pinchest with them as with
a tongs.'

Each in turn contends that her singing is most use-
The owl says:--

'Mi stefne is bold and no3t unorne,

Heo is i-lich one grete horne ;
And din is i-lich one pipe
Of one smale weode unripe.
Ich singe bet dan du dest;
Du chaterest so doo on Irish prest.
Ich singe an eve arizte time
And seo de won hit is bed-time,
De dridde side at middelnizte.
And so ich mine song adizte
Wone ich i-seo arise veoure
Oder dai-rim oder dai-sterre.
Ich do god mid mine drote
And warni men to heore note.'

6

'My voice is bold, and not unpleas-
ing,

It is like a great horn;
And thine is like a pipe
Of a small unripe weed.

I sing better than thou dost;
Thou chatterest like an Irish priest.
I sing at eve at a right time
And later when it is bed time,
The third time at midnight.

And so I order my song

When I see arise afar

Either the daybreak or the day-star.

I do good with my throat

And warn men in their need.'

The nightingale replies that the owl's song is dismal, and fit to make men weep.

'Ac ich alle blisse mid me bringe, Ech wizt is glad for mine dinge.

De blostme ginned springe and
sprede

Beode ine treo and ek on mede
De lilie mid hire faire wlite
Welcumeð me, dat du hit wite,
Bit me mid hire faire bleo
Dat ich schulle to hire fleo.

'But I bring all bliss with me, Each wight is glad on account of

me.

The blossoms begin to spring and
spread

Both in the tree and in the mead
The lily with her fair splendour
Welcomes me, as you well know,
Invites me with her fair colour
That I should fly to her.

De rose also mid hire rude
Dat cume ut of de dorne wude
Bit me dat ich shulle singe
Vor hire luve one skentinge.'

Also the rose with her red
That comes out of the thorny wood
Invites me that I shall sing

For her love some pleasant thing.'

The dispute will not end, and they are persuaded to submit it to Maister Nichole,' and so,-

To Portesham do heo bi-come,
Ah hu heo spedde of heore dome

Ne can ich en namore telle;
Her is na more of disse spelle.

To Portesham then they come,
But how they sped with their
judgment

I cannot tell you any more;
Here is no more of this story.

'KING HORN.'

In the latter half of the thirteenth century we meet with two metrical romances, King Horn' and 'Havelok the Dane,' which appear to have been favourites. The next century produced a great number of such works, as we shall find, and these two are interesting as being the earliest. They are both translations from French originals, but these French originals are in their turn thought to be based on old English stories.

The poets no longer make use of the Old English ornament of alliteration, but they use instead the French device of end rhymes. The versification is sprightly and pleasing (in King Horn' especially), and the poem was probably sung to the harp.

The poem of 'King Horn' consists of nearly 1,600 short verses, and it opens thus :—

The fierce heathens slew the king, seized the land,

and destroyed the churches.

Most wretched was Godhild then;
For Murry she wept sore
And for Horn yet more.
She went out of hall
From her maidens all
Under a rock of stone
There she lived alone.

Horn's life for his beauty's
twelve companions in a boat