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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
Should I out dare a hope to speel
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield
The braes o' fame,

Or Fergusson, the writer chiel',
A deathless name."

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?
He wan the love o' great and sma':
For after he the bride had kiss'd,
He kiss'd the lasses hale-sale a'.
Sae merrily round the ring they row'd,
When by the hand he led them a',
And smack on smack on them bestow'd
By virtue of a standing law.

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;
Gae ca' your bride and maidens in,
For Willie he dow do nae mair.

Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out,
And for a wee fill up the ring;
But, shame light on his souple snout,
He wanted Willie's wanton fling.
Then straught he to the bride did fare,
Says, Weels me on your bonnie face;
Wi' bobbing Willie's shanks are sair,
And I'm come out to fill his place.

Bridegroom, she says, ye'll spoil the dance,
And at the ring ye'll aye be lag,
Unless like Willie ye advance:

O! Willie has a wanton leg;
For wi't he learns us a' to steer,

And foremost aye bears up the ring; We will find nae sie dancing here,

If we want Willie's wanton fling.

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Which come from thy poetic quarry
As sharp as swords.

Now tho' I should baith reel and rottle,
And be as light as Aristotle,

At Ed'nburgh we sall ha'e a bottle
Of reaming claret,

Gin that my half-pay siller shottle
Can safely spare it.

At crambo then we'll rack our brain,
Droun ilk dull care and aching pain,
Whilk aften does our spirits drain
Of true content;
Woy, woy! but we's be wonder fain

When thus acquaint.

Wi' wine we'll gargarize our craig,
Then enter in a lasting league,
Free of ill aspect or intrigue;

And, gin you please it,

Like princes when met at the Hague
We'll solemnize it.

Accept of this, and look upon it
With favour, tho' poor I ha'e done it.
Sae I conclude and end my sonnet,

Wha am most fully,

While I do wear a hat or bonnet,
Yours, WANTON WILLIE.

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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
Without e'er budging.

In even doun earnest there's but few
To vie with Ramsay dare avow,
In verse; for to give thee thy due,
And without fleetching,
Thou's better at that trade, I trow,
Than some's at preaching.

For my part, till I'm better lear't,
To troke with thee I'd best forbear't,
For an' the fouk o' Ed'nburgh hear't
They'll call me daft;

I'm unco eerie, and dirt fear't
I mak wrang waft.

Thy verses, nice as ever nicket,
Made me as canty as a cricket;
I ergh to reply, lest I stick it;
Syne like a coof

I look, or ane whose pouch is pickit
As bare's my loof.

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"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',
And stately stept he west;
Full seventy yeirs he now had sene,
With skerss seven yeirs of rest.

He livit quhen Britons breach of faith
Wrought Scotland meikle wae;
And ay his sword tauld, to their cost,
He was their deidly fae.

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,
For chast and bewtie deimt,
Nae marrow had in all the land,
Saif Elenor the quenc,

Full thirteen sons to him scho bare,
All men of valour stout,
In bluidy ficht, with sword in hand,
Nyne lost their lives bot doubt;

Four yit remain, lang may they live,
To stand by liege and land;
Hie was their fame, hie was their micht,
And hie was their command.

Great luve they bare to Fairly fair,
Their sister saft and deir;
Her girdle shaw'd her middle jimp
And gowden glist her hair.

Qubat waefou wae her bewtie bred!
Waefou to young and auld;
Waefou, I trow, to kyth and kin,
As story ever tauld.

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,
With noble chiefs in braif aray,

Drinking the blude-reid wyne.

"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," Our gude king raise and cryd;

A trustier beast in all the land
A Scots king nevir seyd.

"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,
Flung by his master's arm,
"Cum down, cum down, Lord Hardyknute,
And red your king frae harm."

Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown cheiks,
Sae did his dark-brown brow;

His luiks grew kene, as they were wont
In dangers great to do.

He has tane a horn as grene as grass,
And gi'en five sounds sae shrill,
That trees in grene-wood schuke thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka hill.

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;"
And sune they heyd them up the hill,
And sune were at his syde.

"Late, late yestrene, I weind in peace, To end my lengthened lyfe,

My age micht weil excuse my arm
Frae manly feats of stryfe.

"But now that Norse dois proudly boast Fair Scotland to inthrall,

Its neir be said of Hardyknute
He feired to ficht or fall.

"Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows schute sae leil,
That mony a comely countenance
They've turned to deidly pale.

"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.

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