beautifully tells us she has been to the adorer of Laura. "Oblivion laid Petrarch on Laura's tomb.'" The readers of Burns will remember that in one of his finest epistles he alludes to Hamilton, in company with Ramsay and the unfortunate Fergusson, as occupying a position on the Parnassian heights to which he could never hope to climb: "My senses wad be in a creel Or Fergusson, the writer chiel', Of the following admirable song, which has by some writers been attributed to William Walkinshaw, Allan Cunningham says, "No one ever conceived a more original lyrie, or filled up the outlines of his conception with more lucky drollery, more lively flashes of native humour, or brighter touches of human characWillie is indeed the first and last of his race; no one has imitated him, and he imitated none. He is a surpassing personage, an enthusiast in merriment, a prodigy in daneing; and his careless graces and natural gifts carry love and admiration into every female bosom." ter. WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. Willie was a wanton wag, The blythest lad that e'er I saw, At bridals still he bore the brag, An' carried aye the gree awa'. His doublet was of Zetland shag, And wow! but Willie he was braw, And at his shoulder hung a tag, That pleas'd the lasses best of a'. He was a man without a clag, His heart was frank without a flaw; And aye whatever Willie said, It still was hauden as a law. His boots they were made of the jag, When he went to the weaponschaw, Upon the green none durst him brag, The ne'er a ane amang them a'. And was na Willie weel worth gowd? And was na Willie a great loun, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen; When he danc'd wi' the lasses round, The bridegroom speir'd where he had been, Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring, Wi' bobbing baith my shanks are sair; Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, Bridegroom, she says, ye'll spoil the dance, O! Willie has a wanton leg; And foremost aye bears up the ring; We will find nae sie dancing here, If we want Willie's wanton fling. Which come from thy poetic quarry Now tho' I should baith reel and rottle, At Ed'nburgh we sall ha'e a bottle Gin that my half-pay siller shottle At crambo then we'll rack our brain, When thus acquaint. Wi' wine we'll gargarize our craig, And, gin you please it, Like princes when met at the Hague Accept of this, and look upon it Wha am most fully, While I do wear a hat or bonnet, With joyfu' heart beyond expression, They're safely now in my possession: O gin I were a winter session Near by thy lodging! I'd close attend thy new profession In even doun earnest there's but few For my part, till I'm better lear't, I'm unco eerie, and dirt fear't Thy verses, nice as ever nicket, I look, or ane whose pouch is pickit "Neither history nor tradition," says Allan | Cunningham, "has preserved any other proof of a genius of a very high order than is contained in the martial and pathetic ballad of "Hardyknute," which both tradition and history combine in ascribing to Lady Wardlaw, daugh- | ter of Sir Charles Halkett of Pitferren. From the curiosity of her compeers, or the vanity of her family, some other specimens of her poetic powers might have been expected; but whatever was looked for, nothing has come; and this is only equalled by her own modesty in seeking to confer on an earlier age the merit of a production which of itself establishes a very fair reputation." Elizabeth Halkett was born about the year 1670, and was married in 1696 to Sir Henry Wardlaw, Bart., of Pitreavie, in Fifeshire. Her death is supposed to have taken place in the year 1727. Her admirable imitation of the old heroic ballad style was published in 1719, at Edinburgh, by James Watson, who, between the years 1706 and 1710, issued a Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Songs, both Ancient and Modern. This imitation was greatly admired by Gray and Percy, who believed it to be ancient, though retouched by some modern hand; and by Sir Walter Scott, who said it was the first poem he ever learned, the last he should forget. "Hardyknute" is certainly a martial and pathetic ballad, but irreconcilable with all chronology, as Scott acknowledged; "A chief with a Norwegian name is strangely introduced as the first of the nobles brought to resist a Norse invasion at the battle of Largs. Other ballads have been attributed to Lady Wardlaw's pen, but, we think, without sufficient evidence. HARDYKNUTE. Stately stept he east the wa', He livit quhen Britons breach of faith Hie on a hill his castle stude, With halls and touris a-hicht, And guidly chambers fair to see, Quhair he lodgit mony a knicht. His dame sae peirless anes and fair, Full thirteen sons to him scho bare, Four yit remain, lang may they live, Great luve they bare to Fairly fair, Qubat waefou wae her bewtie bred! The king of Norse, in summer tyde, Puft up with powir and micht, Landed in fair Scotland the yle, With mony a hardy knicht. The tydings to our gude Scots king Came as he sat at dyne, Drinking the blude-reid wyne. "To horse, to horse, my royal liege, "Bring me my steed, Mage, dapple gray," Our gude king raise and cryd; A trustier beast in all the land "Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives on hill so hie, To draw his sword, the dreid of faes, And haste and follow me. The little page flew swift as dart, Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown cheiks, His luiks grew kene, as they were wont He has tane a horn as grene as grass, His sons in manly sport and glie Had past that summer's morn, Quhen low doun in a grassy dale They heard their fatheris horn. "That horn," quod they, "neir sounds in peace, We haif other sport to byde;" "Late, late yestrene, I weind in peace, To end my lengthened lyfe, My age micht weil excuse my arm "But now that Norse dois proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall, Its neir be said of Hardyknute "Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, "Brade Thomas, tak' ye but your lance, Ye neid nae weapons mair, Gif ye ficht wi't as ye did anes 'Gainst Westmoreland's ferss heir. |