A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, Before him came a dwarffe full lowe, That waited on his knee, And at his backe five heads he bare, All wan and pale of blee. Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted dowe, The Eldridge knight is his own cousine, Whom a knight of thine hath shent: And hee is come to avenge his wrong, And to thee, all thy knightes among, Defiance here hath sent. But yette he will appease his wrath Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee; Or else within these lists soe broad The king he turned him round aboute, Is there never a knighte of my round table, Is there never a knighte amongst yee all For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, But every knighte of his round table For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn, All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè, Up then sterte the stranger knighte, And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde, My daughter is thy meede. The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, And sayd, Awaye, awaye : I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn, Then forthe the stranger knight he came "That this were my true knightę!" And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, 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, 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 And spying a secrette part, Then all the people gave a shoute, That had reskewed her from thrall. And nowe the kinge with all his barons But he for payne and lacke of bloude Come downe, come downe, my daughter Thou art a leeche of skille; Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes, To helpe him if she maye; And shriekte and swound awaye. Sir Cauline just lifte up his eyes Then giving her one partinge looke, But when she found her comelye knighte O staye, my deare and onlye lord, For mee thy faithfulle feere; Who hast bought my love soe deare. Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, V.—EDWARD, EDWARD. A SCOTTISH BALLAD. From a MS. copy transmitted from Scotland. Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, Edward, Edward? Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, Mither, mither: That erst was sae fair and free, O. THIS old romantic legend (partly from two copies) bears marks of considerable antiquity, and perhaps ought to have taken place of any in this volume. It appears to have been written while part of Spain was in the hands of the Saracens or Moors; whose empire there was not fully extinguished before the year 1491. The Mahometans are spoken of in ver. 49, etc., just in the same terms as in all other old romances. I cannot help observing that the reader will see, in this ballad, the character of the old minstrels (those successors of the bards) placed in a very respectable light. The further we carry our inquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the Celtic and Gothic nations. Their character was deemed so sacred, that under its sanction our famous King Alfred (as we have already seen) made no scruple to enter the Danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king's headquarters. Our poet has suggested the same expedient to the heroes of this ballad. Even so late as the time of Froissart we find minstrels and heralds mentioned together as those who might securely go into an enemy's country. As to Estmere's riding into the hall while the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry; and even to this day we see a relic of this custom still kept up in the champion's riding into Westminster hall during the coronation dinner. Some liberties have been taken with this tale by the editor, but none without notice to the reader in that part which relates to the subject of the harper and his attendant. There they found good kyng Adlànd Now Christ thee save, good kyng Adland; You have a daughter, said Adler younge, Yesterday was att my deere daughter Syr Bremor the kyng of Spayne; And then she nicked him of naye, And I doubt sheele do you the same. The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, And 'leeveth on Mahound; And pitye it were that fayre ladyè Shold marrye a heathen hound. But grant to me, sayes kyng Estmere, Before I goe hence awaye. Although itt is seven yeers and more Since my daughter was in halle, She shall come once downe for your sake To glad my guestès alle. Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes laced in pall, And halfe a hundred of bold knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall; And as many gentle squiers, To tend upon them all. The talents of golde were on her head sette, Hanged low downe to her knee; t And everye ring on her small finger Shone of the chrystall free. Saies, God you save, my deere madàm; And if you love me, as you saye, All that ever you are comen about Then bespake her father deare: He wold pull downe my halles and castles, And reave me of my lyfe. I cannot blame him if he doe, If I reave him of his wyfe. Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute; And therefore of the king of Spaine Wee neede not stande in doubt. Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère, Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed the might bee. They had not ridden scant a myle, But in did come the kyng of Spayne, Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter, Tother daye to carrye her home. Shee sent one after kyng Estmère Or goe home and loose his ladyè. One whyle then the page he went, Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere ! That will you sore annoye. You had not ridden scant a mile, But in did come the kyng of Spayne Tother daye to carry her home. My ladye fayre she greetes you well, Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother, Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge, I quicklye will devise a waye * Sic MS. It should probably be ryse, i.e. my counsel shall arise from thee. See v. 140. |