PART SECOND.

ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES.

[Corspatrick (Comes Patrick), earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I in Scotland. As Thomas of Erceldoune is said to have delivered to him his fam us prophecy of king Alexander's death, the author has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are selected from Hart's publication of the Rhymer's predictions printed at Edinburgh A.D. 1615.]

WHEN seven years were come and gane,
The sun blink'd fair on pool and stream;
And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,

Like one awaken'd from a dream.

He heard the trampling of a steed,
He saw the flash of armour flee,
And he beheld a gallant knight,
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree,
He was a stalwart knight, and strong;
Of giant make he 'pear'd to be:
He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode,
Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free.

Says "Well met, well met, true Thomas!
Some uncouth ferlies shew to me."
Says "Christ thee save, Corspatrick brave!
Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, to me!
"Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave,
And I will shew thee curses three,
Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane,
And change the green to the black livery.

"A storm shall roar, this very hour,
From Rosse's Hills to Solway sea,"
"Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar!

For the sun shines sweet on fauld and lea."

He put his hand on the earlie's head;

He shew'd him a rock, beside the sea, Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed,* And steel-dight nobies wip'd their e'e.

King Alexander; killed by a fall from his horse, near King horn,

"The neist curse lights on Branxton Hills:
By Flodden's high and heathery side,
Shall wave a banner, red as blude,

And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride.
"A Scottish king shall come full keen;
The ruddy lion beareth he:
A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween,

Shall make him wink and warre to see.
"When he is bloody, and all to bledde,
Thus to his men he still shall say-
'For God's sake, turn ye back again,
And give yon southern folk a fray!
Why should I lose the right is mine?
My doom is not to die this day.'*
"Yet turn ye to the eastern hand,
And woe and wonder ye sall see;
How forty thousand spearmen stand,
Where yon rank river meets the sea.
"There shall the lion lose the gylte,
And the libbards bear it clean away;
At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt
Much gentil blude that day."

Enough, enough, of curse and ban;
Some blessing shew thou now to me,

Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, "Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" "The first of blessings I shall thee shew, Is by a burn, that's called of bread;+ Where Saxon men shall tine the bow,

And find their arrows lack the head.

"Beside that brigg, out-ower that burn, Where the water bickereth bright and sheen,

Shall many a falling courser spurn,

And knights shall die in battle keen.

The uncertainty which long prevailed in Scotland concerning the fate of James IV, is well known.

+ One of Thomas's rhymes, preserved by tradition, runs thus: "The burn of brid

Shall run fow reid."

Bannock-burn is the brook here meant. The Scots give the nam of bannock, to a thick round cake of unleavened bread.

"Beside a headless cross of stone,

The libbards there shall lose the gree:
The raven shall come, the erne shall go,
And drink the Saxon blood sae free.
The cross of stone they shall not know,
So thick the corses there shall be."
"But tell me now," said brave Dunbar,
"True Thomas, tell now unto me,
What man shall rule the isle Britain,
Ev'n from the north to the southern sea ?"

"A French queen shall bear the son,
Shall rule all Britain to the sea:
He of the Bruce's blude shall come,
As near as in the ninth degree.
"The waters worship shall his race;
Likewise the waves of the farthest sea;
For they shall ride ower ocean wide,
With hempen bridles, and horse of tree."

PART THIRD.

MODERN.

WHEN seven years more had come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonny Coldingknow,
Pitch'd palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a rowe,
Glanc'd gaily through the broom.
The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie ;*

They rous'd the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;

• Ensensie.-War-ery, or gathering word

And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies, laced in pall."

Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dine,

The music, nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighs* of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done;
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,
The elfin harp he won.)

Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue,
And harpers for envy pale;
And armed lords lean'd on their swords,

And hearken'd to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet pour'd along;

No after bard might e'er avail
Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of

years,

As, buoyant on the stormy main,

A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's table round:
The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,
And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;+
Was none excell'd in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venom'd wound he bore;

When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;

No med'cine could be found,

Quaighs.- Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together Alluding to Thomas the Rhymer's celebrated romance of Su Tristrem.

Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had prob'd the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!
For, doom'd in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,
His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard

In fairy tissue wove:

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,

In

gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High rear d its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.

Brengwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,

Till bent at length the list'ning throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand;
With agony his heart is wrung:

O where is Isolde's lily hand,

And where her soothing tongue?

She comes, she comes! like flash of flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly:

She comes, she comes! she only came
To see her Tristrem die.

She saw him die: her latest sigh

Join'd in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair that Britain hare United are in death.