Part 18 (1/2)

Aft Britains blude has dimd its shyne This poynt cut short their vaunt; Syne piercd the boisteris bairded cheik, Nae tyme he tuke to taunt.

x.x.xV.

Schort quhyle he in his sadill sw.a.n.g, His stirrip was nae stay, Sae feible hang his unbent knee, Sure taken he was fey: Swith on the hardened clay he fell, Richt far was heard the thud, But THOMAS luikt not as he lay, All waltering in his blude.

x.x.xVI.

With cairles gesture mynd ummuvit On raid he north the plain, His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe, Quhen winner ay the same; Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik, Coud meise saft luve to bruik, Till vengeful ANN returnd his scorn, Then languid grew his luke.

x.x.xVII.

In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheik All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriors lay, Neir to aryse again; Neir to return to native land, Nae mair with blythsome sounds, To boist the glories of the day, And schaw their shyning wounds.

x.x.xXVIII.

On Norways coast the widowit dame May wash the rock with teirs, May lang luke owre the schiples seis Befoir hir mate appeirs.

Ceise, EMMA, ceise to hope in vain, Thy lord lyis in the clay, The valziant Scots nae revers thole To carry lyfe away.

x.x.xIX.

There on a lie quhair stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands full fierce that summers day Filld kene waris black intent.

Let Scots quhyle Scots, praise HARDYKNUTE Let NORSE the name ay dreid, Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird, Sal latest ages reid.

XL.

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind, Sair beat the heavy showir, Mirk grew the nicht, eir HARDYKNUTE Wan neir his stately towir; His towir that usd with torches bleise To shyne sae far at nicht, Seimd now as black as mourning weid, Nae marvel sair he sichd.

XLI.

Thairs nae licht in my lady's bowir, Thairs nae licht in my hall; Nae blink shynes round my FAIRLY fair, Nor ward stands on my wall.

Quhat bodes it? ROBERT, THOMAS say, Nae answer fits their dreid.

Stand back, my sons, I'll be zour gyde, But by they past with speid.

XLII.

As fast I haif sped owre Scotlands faes, There ceist his brag of weir, Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his dame, And maiden FAIRLY fair.

Black feir he felt, but quhat to feir He wist not zit with dreid; Sair schuke his body, sair his limbs, And all the warrior fleid.

ODE

ON LYRIC POETRY.

BY DR. AKENSIDE.

Once more I join the Thespian quire, And taste th' inspiring fount again: O parent of the Graecian lyre, Admit me to thy secret strain.---- And lo! with ease my step invades The pathless vale and opening shades, Till now I spy her verdant seat; And now at large I drink the sound, While these her offspring, list'ning round, By turns her melody repeat.

I see ANACREON smile and sing: His silver tresses breathe perfume; His cheek displays a second spring Of roses taught by wine to bloom.