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"Hast thou any horn beasts," the sheriff repli'd, "Good fellow, to sell unto me?" "Yes, that I have, good master sheriff, I have hundreds two or three,

"And a hundred aker of good free land, If you please it to see:

And Ile make you as good assurance of it, father made me."

As ever my

The sheriff he saddled his good palfrèy,

And, with three hundred pound in gold,
Away he went with bold Robin Hood,
His horned beasts to behold.

Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride,
To the forrest of merry Sherwood,

Then the sheriff did say, "God save us this day,
From a man they call Robin Hood!"

But when a little farther they came,
Bold Robin he chanced to spy
A hundred head of good red deer,

Come tripping the sheriff full nigh.

"How like you my horn'd beasts, good master sheriff?

They be fat and fair for to see."

"I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone, For I like not thy company."

Then Robin set his horn to his mouth,

And blew but blasts three;

Then quickly anon there came Little John,

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"What is John,

your will, master ?" then said Little

"Good master, come tell unto me."

"I have brought hither the sheriff of Notingham

This day to dine with thee."

"He is welcome to me," then said Little John, "I hope he will honestly pay;

I know he has gold, if it be but well told,
Will serve us to drink a whole day."

Then Robin took his mantle from his back,
And laid it upon the ground;
And out of the sheriffs portmantle
He told three hundred pound.

Then Robin he brought him thorow the wood,
And set him on his dapple gray;

"O have me commended to your wife at home:" So Robin went laughing away.

The Beath of Keeldar.

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead,
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Career'd along the lea;

The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three.

Man, hound, and horse, of higher fame To wake the wild deer never came, Since Alnwick's earl pursued the game On Cheviot's rueful day :

Keeldar was matchless in his speed; Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed ; A peerless archer Percy Rede;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd their joys and woes;
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose
By fountain or by stream;

And oft when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
When each, as wildering fancy led,
Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear-
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,
The signs the hunters know.
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears,
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears,
The restless palfrey paws and rears,
The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot! Halloo! halloo !
Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue;
But woe the shaft that erring flew-
That e'er it left the string,

And ill betide the faithless yew!

The stag bounds scatheless o'er the dew And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drench'd the grey-goose wing!

The noble hound-he dies, he diesDeath, death has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver;

Now day may break and bugle sound,
And whoop and halloo ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound;
But Keeldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,

Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise,
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death; but still

His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear;
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite bending low,
In speechless grief recline,—
Can think he hears the senseless clay
In unreproachful accents say,
"The hand that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine?

"And if it be, the shaft be bless'd,
Which sure some erring aim address'd,
Since in your service prized, caress'd,
I in your service die;

And you may have a fleeter hound,
To match the dun-deer's merry bound;
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I."

And to his last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance; for when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,
And fell amid the fray,

E'en with his dying voice he cried,
"Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been spied—
I had not died to-day 1!"


The Enemies.

[The story on which the following ballad is founded is related in Mrs. Jameson's "Lives of Female Sovereigns."]


Oн, fair was Countess Isadoure,
The Ladye of Leòn,

And she unto her highest tower,
With all her maids, is gone;
A veil of lace, in modest grace,
Was wrapt her brow around;
Her vesture fair of satin rare

Swept on the stony ground.

1 The above poem appeared in the "Gem" for 1829. The Editor, Thomas Hood, thus introduces it:-"To Sir Walter Scott, not merely a literary feather in my cap, but a whole plume of them, I owe, and with the hand of my heart acknowledge. A poem from his pen is likely to confer on the book that contains it, if not perpetuity, at least a very 'Old Mortality.'"

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