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A Fragment
STATELY 1 stept he east the wa’, | |
| 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 | 5 |
| Wrought Scotland mickle wae, | |
| And ay his sword tauld to their cost | |
| He was their deadly fae. | |
| |
| High on a hill his castle stood, | |
| With ha’s and towers a height, | 10 |
| And goodly chambers, fair to see, | |
| Where he lodged mony a knight. | |
| His dame, sae peerless anes and fair, | |
| For chast and beauty deemed, | |
| Nae marrow had in all the land | 15 |
| Save Elenor the queen. | |
| |
| Full thirteen sons to him she bare, | |
| All men of valour stout; | |
| In bloody fight, with sword in hand, | |
| Nine lost their lives but doubt. | 20 |
| Four yet remain, lang may 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, | 25 |
| Their sister saft and dear; | |
| Her girdle shaw’d her middle jimp, | |
| And gowden glist her hair. | |
| What waefou wae her beauty bred! | |
| Waefou to young and auld, | 30 |
| Waefou, I trow, to kyth and kin, | |
| As story ever tauld. | |
| |
| The King of Norse in summertyde, | |
| Puffed up with power and might, | |
| Landed in fair Scotland the isle | 35 |
| With mony a hardy knight. | |
| The tidings to our good Scots King | |
| Came as he sat at dine | |
| With noble chiefs in brave Aray, | |
| Drinking the blood-red wine. | 40 |
| |
| ‘To horse, to horse, my royal liege, | |
| Your faes stand on the strand, | |
| Full twenty thousand glittering spears | |
| The King of Norse commands.’ | |
| ‘Bring me my steed Mage, dapple-gray! | 45 |
| Our good King rose and cried; | |
| ‘A trustier beast in all the land | |
| A Scots King never tried. | |
| |
| ‘Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, | |
| That lives on hill so hie, | 50 |
| To draw his sword, the dread of faes, | |
| And haste and follow me.’ | |
| The little page flew swift as dart | |
| Flung by his master’s arm, | |
| ‘Come down, come down, Lord Hardyknute | 55 |
| And rid your king of harm.’ | |
| |
| Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, | |
| Sae did his dark-brown brow; | |
| His looks grew keen as they were wont | |
| In dangers great to do. | 60 |
| He’s ta’en a horn as green as glass, | |
| And gi’en five sounds sae shrill | |
| That trees in greenwood shook thereat, | |
| Sae loud rang every hill. | |
| |
| His sons in manly sport and glee | 65 |
| Had passed that summer’s morn, | |
| When lo, down in a grassy dale, | |
| They heard their father’s horn. | |
| ‘That horn,’ quo’ they, ‘ne’er sounds in peace; | |
| We’ve other sport to bide.’ | 70 |
| And soon they hied them up the hill, | |
| And soon were at his side. | |
| |
| ‘Late, late yestreen I weened in peace | |
| To end my lengthened life; | |
| My age might well excuse my arm | 75 |
| Frae manly feats of strife; | |
| But now that Norse does proudly boast | |
| Fair Scotland to enthrall, | |
| It’s ne’er be said of Hardyknute | |
| He feared to fight or fall. | 80 |
| |
| ‘Robin of Rothesay, bend thy bow, | |
| Thy arrows shoot sae leal; | |
| Mony a comely countenance | |
| They’ve turned to deadly pale. | |
| Braid Thomas, take ye but your lance— | 85 |
| You need nae weapons mair; | |
| If you fight wi’t as you did anes | |
| ’Gainst Westmoreland’s fierce heir. | |
| |
| ‘Malcolm, light of foot as stag | |
| That runs in forest wild, | 90 |
| Get me my thousands three of men | |
| Well bred to sword and shield. | |
| Bring me my horse and harnisine, | |
| My blade of metal clear.’ | |
| If faes but kenn’d the hand it bare | 95 |
| They soon had fled for fear. | |
| |
| ‘Fareweel, my dame sae peerless good!’ | |
| And took her by the hand; | |
| ‘Fairer to me in age you seem | |
| Then maids for beauty famed. | 100 |
| My youngest son shall here remain, | |
| To guard these stately towers, | |
| And shut the silver bolt that keeps | |
| Sae fast your painted bowers.’ | |
| |
| And first she wet her comely cheeks | 105 |
| And then her bodice green, | |
| Her silken chords of twirtle twist, | |
| Well plet with silver sheen; | |
| And apron set with mony a dice | |
| Of needlewark sae rare, | 110 |
| Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, | |
| Save that of Fairly fair. | |
| |
| And he has ridden o’er muir and moss, | |
| O’er hills and mony a glen, | |
| When he came to a wounded knight | 115 |
| Making a heavy mane. | |
| ‘Here maun I lie, here maun I die | |
| By treachery’s false guiles: | |
| Witless I was that ere ga’e faith | |
| To wicked woman’s smiles!’ | 120 |
| |
| ‘Sir Knight, gin you were in my power, | |
| To lean on silken seat, | |
| My lady’s kindly care you’d prove, | |
| Who ne’er kenn’d deadly hate. | |
| Herself would watch you a’ the day. | 125 |
| Her maids a’ dead of night, | |
| And Fairly fair your heart would cheer, | |
| As she stands in your sight. | |
| |
| [‘Arise, young knight, and mount your steed, | |
| Full lowers the shining day; | 130 |
| Choose frae my menzie whom ye please | |
| To lead ye on the way.’ | |
| With smileless look and visage wan | |
| The wounded knight replied, | |
| ‘Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, | 135 |
| For here I maun abide. | |
| |
| ‘To me nae after day nor night | |
| Can ere be sweet or fair; | |
| But soon beneath some drooping tree | |
| Cauld death shall end my care.’ | 140 |
| With him nae pleading might prevail: | |
| Brave Hardyknute, to gain, | |
| With fairest words and reason strang | |
| Strave courteously in vain.] | |
| |
| Syne he has gane far hynd our o’er | 145 |
| Lord Chattan’s land sae wide. | |
| That lord a worthy wight was aye | |
| When faes his courage ’sayed | |
| Of Pictish race by mother’s side, | |
| When Picts ruled Caledon— | 150 |
| Lord Chattan claimed the princely maid | |
| When he saved Pictish crown. | |
| |
| [Now with his fierce and stalwart train | |
| He reached a rising height | |
| Where, braid encampit on the dale, | 155 |
| Norse army lay in sight. | |
| ‘Yonder, my valiant sons and feres, | |
| Our raging reivers wait, | |
| On the unconquered Scottish sward | |
| To try with us their fate. | 160 |
| |
| ‘Mak’ orisons to him that saved | |
| Our souls upon the rood, | |
| Syne bravely show your veins are filled | |
| With Caledonian blood. | |
| Then forth he drew his trusty glaive, | 165 |
| While thousands all around, | |
| Drawn frae their sheath, glanced in the sun, | |
| And loud the bugles sound. | |
| |
| To join his king, adown the hill | |
| In haste his march he made, | 170 |
| While, playing pibrochs, minstrels meet | |
| Afore him stately strade. | |
| ‘Thrice welcome, valiant stoup of war, | |
| Thy nation’s shield and pride! | |
| Thy king nae reason has to fear | 175 |
| When thou art by his side.’] | |
| |
| When bows were bent and darts were thrawn, | |
| For thrang scarce could they flee; | |
| The darts clove arrows as they met, | |
| The arrows dart the tree. | 180 |
| Lang did they rage and fight fou fierce | |
| With little skaith to man, | |
| But bloody bloody was the field | |
| Ere that lang day was done. | |
| |
| The king of Scots, that sinle brooked | 185 |
| The war that looked like play, | |
| Drew his braid sword and brake his bow, | |
| Sin’ bows seemed but delay. | |
| Quoth noble Rothesay, ‘Mine I’ll keep: | |
| I wat it’s bled a score.’ | 190 |
| ‘Haste up, my merry man,’ cried the king, | |
| As he rode on before. | |
| |
| The King of Norse he sought to find, | |
| With him to mense the faucht; | |
| But on his forehead there did light | 195 |
| A sharp and fatal shaft; | |
| As he his hand put up to find | |
| The wound, an arrow keen, | |
| O waefou chance! there pinned his hand | |
| In midst, between his een. | 200 |
| |
| ‘Revenge, revenge!’ cried Rothesay’s heir, | |
| ‘Your mail-coat shall na bide | |
| The strength and sharpness of my dart.’ | |
| Then sent it through his side. | |
| Another arrow well he marked, | 205 |
| It pierced his neck in twa; | |
| His hands then quat the silver reins, | |
| He low as earth did fa’. | |
| |
| ‘Sair bleeds my liege! sair, sair he bleeds!’ | |
| Again with might he drew— | 210 |
| And gesture dread—his sturdy bow; | |
| Fast the braid arrow flew, | |
| Wae to the Knight he ettled at! | |
| Lament now Queen Elgreed! | |
| High dames too wail your darling’s fall, | 215 |
| His youth and comely meed. | |
| |
| ‘Take aff, take aff his costly jupe!’ | |
| Of gold well was it twined, | |
| Knit like the fowler’s net through which | |
| His steely harness shined. | 220 |
| ‘Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid | |
| Him venge the blood it bears; | |
| Say, if he face my bended bow | |
| He sure nae weapon fears.’ | |
| |
| Proud Norse, with giant body tall, | 225 |
| Braid shoulders, and arms strong, | |
| Cried, ‘Where is Hardyknute sae famed | |
| And feared at Britain’s throne? | |
| The Britons tremble at his name; | |
| I soon shall make him wail | 230 |
| That e’er my sword was made sae sharp, | |
| Sae saft his coat of mail.’ | |
| |
| That brag his stout heart couldna bide, | |
| It lent him youthful might; | |
| ‘I’m Hardyknute this day,’ he cried, | 235 |
| ‘To Scotland’s king I heght | |
| To lay thee low as horse’s hoof; | |
| My word I mean to keep.’ | |
| Syne with the first stroke e’er he strake | |
| He garr’d his body bleed. | 240 |
| |
| Norse een like grey gosshawk’s stared wild; | |
| He sighed with shame and spite— | |
| ‘Disgraced is now my far-famed arm, | |
| That left you power to strike!’ | |
| Then ga’ his head a blow sae fell, | 245 |
| It made him down to stoop | |
| As low as he to ladies used | |
| In courtly guise to lout. | |
| |
| Fou soon he raised his bent body, | |
| His bow he marvelled sair, | 250 |
| Sin blows till then on him but darr’d | |
| As touch of Fairly fair. | |
| Norse marvelled too as sair as he | |
| To see his stately look— | |
| Sae soon as e’er he strake a fae | 255 |
| Sae soon his life he took. | |
| |
| [Where, like a fire to heather set, | |
| Bold Thomas did advance, | |
| A sturdy fae, with look enraged, | |
| Up towards him did prance. | 260 |
| He spurred his steed through thickest ranks | |
| The hardy youth to quell, | |
| Who stood unmoved at his approach, | |
| His fury to repell. | |
| |
| ‘That short brown shaft sae meanly trimmed, | 265 |
| Looks like poor Scotland’s gear, | |
| But dreadful seems the rusty point!’ | |
| And loud he leugh in jeer. | |
| ‘Aft Britons’ blood has dimmed its shine; | |
| This point cut short their vaunt.’ | 270 |
| Syne pierced the boisterous bearded cheek— | |
| Nae time he took to taunt. | |
| |
| Short while he in his saddle swung, | |
| His stirrup was nae stay, | |
| Sae feeble hung his unbent knee— | 275 |
| Sure token he was fey. | |
| Swith on the hardened clay he fell, | |
| Right far was heard the thud; | |
| But Thomas looked not as he lay | |
| All weltering in his blood. | 280 |
| |
| With careless gesture, mind unmoved, | |
| On rode he north the plain, | |
| He seemed in thrang of fiercest strife | |
| When winner aye the same. | |
| Nor yet his heart dame’s dimpled cheek | 285 |
| Could meise saft love to brook, | |
| Till vengeful Ann returned his scorn; | |
| Then languid grew his look. | |
| |
| In throes of death, with wallowit cheek, | |
| All panting on the plain, | 290 |
| The fainting corpse of warriors lay, | |
| Ne’er to rise again— | |
| Ne’er to return to native land, | |
| Nae mair with blithesome sounds | |
| To boast the glories of the day, | 295 |
| And show their shining wounds. | |
| |
| On Norway’s coast the widowed dame | |
| May wash the rocks with tears— | |
| May lang look o’er the shipless seas | |
| Before her mate appears. | 300 |
| Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain; | |
| Thy lord lies in the clay: | |
| The valiant Scots nae reivers thole | |
| To carry life away.] | |
| |
| There, on a lea where stands a cross | 305 |
| Set up for monument, | |
| Thousands fou fierce that summer’s day, | |
| Killed keen war’s black intent. | |
| Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute, | |
| Let Norse the name aye dread— | 310 |
| Aye how he fought, aft how he spared, | |
| Shall latest ages read. | |
| |
| Loud and chill blew the westlin’ wind, | |
| Sair beat the heavy shower, | |
| Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute | 315 |
| Wan near his stately tower. | |
| His tower that used wi’ torches’ blaze | |
| To shine sae far at night, | |
| Seemed now as black as mourning weed— | |
| Nae marvel sair he sight. | 320 |
| |
| [‘There’s nae light in my lady’s bower, | |
| There’s nae light in my hall, | |
| Nae blink shines round my Fairly fair, | |
| Nor ward stands on my wall. | |
| What bodes it? Robert, Thomas say!’ | 325 |
| Nae answer fits their dread, | |
| ‘Stand back, my sons, I’ll be your guide;’ | |
| But by they passed with speed. | |
| |
| ‘As fast I’ve sped over Scotland’s faes—’ | |
| There ceased his brag of war, | 330 |
| Sair shamed to mind aught but his dame, | |
| And maiden Fairly fair. | |
| Black fear he felt, but what to fear | |
| He wist not yet with dread; | |
| Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, | 335 |
| And all the warrior fled.] | |
