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Lyr/Tune Add: Hurdyknute / Hardyknute

Lesley N. 16 Oct 99 - 02:36 PM
Lesley N. 16 Oct 99 - 03:44 PM
Bruce O. 16 Oct 99 - 04:35 PM
Bruce O. 16 Oct 99 - 05:05 PM
Lesley N. 16 Oct 99 - 05:51 PM
GUEST,Seamus 20 Sep 07 - 12:08 PM
Jim Dixon 22 Sep 07 - 12:08 AM
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Subject: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: Lesley N.
Date: 16 Oct 99 - 02:36 PM

I didn't find this in the database. No copyright problems - the source is Songs of Scotland, Vol II - 1877. It seems to be referred to as very old - but I can't find even a circa date... Anyone have any information on it beyond what I have here?

Child refers to it as a tiresome and affected tune "much esteemed" in a time which I figure to be the 1700s.

According to Bruce's site the tune for Chevy Chase was Isle of Kell and James Dick says this is the same as Hardy Knute. Bruce has not been able to verify this. Certainly the two tunes I have for each are very different. However, as with many folksongs they could have been sung to several different airs.

This ballad is said to commemorate The Battle of Largs (August 1, 1263) between Alexander III of Scotland and Haakon Haakonsson of Norway. The Scots won. Hardyknute had died some 200 years before the battle.

Stately stept he East the wa',
And stately stept he West;
Full sev'nty zeirs he now had seen
With skerfs sevin ziers of rest.

He livit quhen Birton's breach of faith
Wroucht Scotland Meickle wae,
And ay his sword tauld to their skaith,
He was their deidly fae.

Hie on a hill his castle stude,
With halls and towers a hicht,
And guidly chambers fair to se
Quhair he lodgit mony a knight.

Songs of Scotland refers to but doesn't give "twelve and more verses - anyone know more???

MIDI file: knute.mid

Timebase: 120

Name: Hardyknute
Text:
TimeSig: 3/4 24 8
Key: C
Tempo: 109 (545455 microsec/crotchet)
Tempo: 110 (540687 microsec/crotchet)
Tempo: 110 (543134 microsec/crotchet)
Tempo: 110 (540687 microsec/crotchet)
Start
0240 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0089 0 69 000 0001 1 71 085 0029 0 71 000 0001 1 73 085 0089 0 73 000 0001 1 73 085 0029 0 73 000 0001 1 76 085 0119 0 76 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 71 085 0119 0 71 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000 0121 1 66 085 0179 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0059 0 69 000 0001 1 64 085 0089 0 64 000 0001 1 61 085 0029 0 61 000 0001 1 59 085 0059 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0059 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0119 0 64 000 0001 1 59 085 0089 0 59 000 0001 1 57 085 0029 0 57 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0089 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0029 0 64 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000 1320 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0089 0 69 000 0001 1 71 085 0029 0 71 000 0001 1 73 085 0089 0 73 000 0001 1 73 085 0029 0 73 000 0001 1 76 085 0119 0 76 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 71 085 0119 0 71 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000 0121 1 66 085 0179 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0059 0 69 000 0001 1 64 085 0089 0 64 000 0001 1 61 085 0029 0 61 000 0001 1 59 085 0059 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0059 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0119 0 64 000 0001 1 59 085 0089 0 59 000 0001 1 57 085 0029 0 57 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0089 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0029 0 64 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000 1322 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0089 0 69 000 0001 1 71 085 0029 0 71 000 0001 1 73 085 0089 0 73 000 0001 1 73 085 0029 0 73 000 0001 1 76 085 0119 0 76 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0119 0 66 000 0001 1 71 085 0119 0 71 000 0001 1 71 085 0089 0 71 000 0001 1 69 085 0029 0 69 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000 0121 1 66 085 0179 0 66 000 0001 1 69 085 0059 0 69 000 0001 1 64 085 0089 0 64 000 0001 1 61 085 0029 0 61 000 0001 1 59 085 0059 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0059 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0119 0 64 000 0001 1 59 085 0089 0 59 000 0001 1 57 085 0029 0 57 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 59 085 0119 0 59 000 0001 1 61 085 0089 0 61 000 0001 1 64 085 0029 0 64 000 0001 1 66 085 0239 0 66 000
End

This program is worth the effort of learning it.

To download the March 10 MIDItext 98 software and get instructions on how to use it click here

ABC format:

X:1
T:Hardyknute
M:3/4
Q:1/4=110
K:C
^F6|^F2A3/2B/2^c3/2^c/2|e2B3/2A/2^F2|B2B3/2A/2^F2|
-^F4^F2|-^FAE3/2^C/2B,^C|E2B,3/2A,/2B,2|B,2^C3/2E/2^F2|
-^F6|^F6|-^F6|^F6|^F6|-^F6|^F6|-^F6|^F2^F4|
-^F6|^F6|-^F4A2|-A6|A11/2B/2|-B6|^c6|-^c3/2^c/2e2B3/2A/2|
^F2B2B3/2A/2|^F6|^F3AE3/2^C/2|B,^CE2B,3/2A,/2|
B,2B,2^C3/2E/2|^F6|-^F6|^F6|-^F6|^F2^F4|-^F6|
^F6|-^F4^F2|-^F6|^F6|A6|-A6|A3/2B9/2|-B2^c3/2^c/2e2|
B3/2A/2^F2B2|B3/2A/2^F4|-^F2^F3A|E3/2^C/2B,^CE2|
B,3/2A,/2B,2B,2|^C3/2E/2^F4||



Hope these work - I sometimes I have trouble with "translations" and have no clue how to fix them!


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Subject: RE: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: Lesley N.
Date: 16 Oct 99 - 03:44 PM

I'll follow up on my own post... Bronson in The Ballad as a Song write that Hardyknute was originally thought to be an ancient ballad but was written by Lady Wardlaw. He doesn't date this but another web site says 1719.

Any have other information??


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Subject: RE: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: Bruce O.
Date: 16 Oct 99 - 04:35 PM

It is the identity of "The Isle of Kell/ Yle of Kyle" that is in question. The tune "Hardyknute" was published by Oswald in 1742, in the 2nd vol. of his "Curious Collection,.." and again later in Caledonian Pocket Companion. This is followed by the copy in 'The Scots Musical Museum", #280, which gives 15 verses of the song. A short version of the song and a tune was copied by Francis Douce into a manuscript now in the Folger Shakespeare Library, but the musical notaion is so bad that I can't be sure its the same early tune, nor can I really get any tune out of the mess by fiddling around with it. Only with difficulty can I usually make sense of those ABCs from converted MIDIs, so here's the SMM tune.

According to John Glen's 'Early Scottish Melodies' one person claimed to have heard several stanzas of "Hardyknute" before it was published in 1719.

X:1
T: Hardyknute: Or, the Batle of Largs.
S:Scots Musical Museum, #280
Q:120
L:1/4
M:3/4
K:Am
AAc3/4d/4|{d/}efd3/4 c/4|Add3/4/ c/4|A2z/c/|\
A{G/}A3/4c/4 G3/4E/4|{D/}EG D3/4C/4|DD{D/}E3/4 G/4|A2|]

Alternative start given as:
X:1
T:same
S:same
Q:same
L:same
M:same
K:same
E|{{E/}AA c3/4 d/4|


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Subject: RE: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: Bruce O.
Date: 16 Oct 99 - 05:05 PM

From Oswald's 'Caledonian Pocket Companion', both tunes, bk. 5, p. 31, c 1753. The second (a version of "I'll never love thee more/ Montrose Lynes") seems to me to be more likely to be "The Isle of Kell" than the first. [Reduce # after Q: to slow it down]

X:1
T:Hardie Knute
S:Oswald's CPC, bk 5, c 1753
Q:120
L:1/4
M:3/4
K:Bm
BBd3/4e/4|{e/}fa e3/4d/4|Bee3/4d/4|B3:|(d/{A/B/}d) {c/}A3/4F/4|\
{E/}FAE3/4D/4|EE{E/}F3/4A/4|B3:|]

X:2
T:Chevy Chace
S:Oswald's CPC, bk 5, c 1753
Q:120
L:1/4
M:3/4
K:Amixolydian
A|A3/4B/4dd|e3/4f/4A3/2a/2|a/(g/4f/4) {f/}e3/2d/|B2z/A/|\
A/B/dd|e3/4f/4A3/2a/|a/f/ (ef3/4)a/4|A2|]


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Subject: RE: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: Lesley N.
Date: 16 Oct 99 - 05:51 PM

Thanks Bruce! You've put me on the right track (why didn't I think of SMM????) SMM says that Lady Wardlow based her verse on "imperfect fragments" of an old ballad and makes a pretty shaky case for the fact (she was too elegant and accomplished a writer to make the mistakes in the ballad...) But it also says it seems improbable if there was such a ballad, that it would have been overlooked by Scottish bards. It doesn't say which verses are original, but does say that whole stanzas are. The fellow who heard the tune was a performer in Edinburgh in 1695.

I now have all of the SMM Verses (these follow the first three)

His dame fae peerlefs anes and fair,
For chaft and bewtie deimt,
Nae marrow had in all the lands
Saif Elenor the queen.

Full thirtein fons tea him foho bare,
All men of valour frout;
In bludy fichf with fword in hand
Nyne loft their lives hot doubt;

Four zit remain, lang may they live
To ftand 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 fifter faft and deir;
Her girdle flawd her middle gimp,
And gowden glift her hair.

Q chat waefou wae her bewtie bred,
Waefou to zung and auld,
Waefou I trow to kyth and kiq,
As ftory ever tauld!
The King of Norfe in fummer tyde,
Puft up with powir and micht,
Landed iii fair Scotland the yle,
With mony a hardy kniclit.

The tydings to our gude Scots king
Came, as he fat at dyne,
With noble chiefs in braif any,
Drinking the blude - reid wyne

'To hone, to hark, my royal Leige
Zours faes ftand on the ftrand,
Foil twenty thousand glittering fears
The King of Norfe commands.'

'Bring me my fteed Mage dapple gray
Our gude King riafe and cry'd,
'A truftier beaft in all the land
A Scots king nevir feyd.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives on hill fae hie,
To draw his fword, the dreid of fats.
And halt and follow me.'

The little page flew fwift as dirt
Flung by his mafters arm:
'Cum clown, cum down, Lord Hardy
A-rid rid zour King frae harm.'

Then reid reid crew his dark-brown che-
Sae did his dark-brown brow;
His luiks grew kene, as they were wont.
In dangers great, to do.
^^


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Subject: RE: LYR & MUS ADD: Hurdyknute - what date?
From: GUEST,Seamus
Date: 20 Sep 07 - 12:08 PM

The well-described "dreary" Hardyknute (aka Battle of Largs), far from being an authentic period account of the battle of that name, is an old fake.

It was penned by Elizabeth Halket, Lady Wardlaw, (1677 -1727), the wife of Sir Henry Wardlaw of Pitrearie near Dunfermline. The ballad of Hardyknute, or the Battle of Largs, was, she claimed, mysteriously discovered in a vault near Dunfermline, but (as in so many cases!) no original manuscript ever appeared. The 1767 edition of Percy's Reliques ascribes the ballad to her.

Comparing it with genuine period pieces, like the songs on the battles of Harlaw and Otterburn, we see measurable differences in both quality and content. Both of those genuine pieces retell the events, participants, and times with a fair degree of accuracy (allowing for the inevitable biases and agendas). "Hardyknute" bears little, if any, relationship to the actual battle, except by chance in one or two particulars.

To be fair, forging antique ballads was apparently common practice in at least some Scottish literary circles for many years. In a later time, we see that many of Hogg's so-called "Jacobite Reliques" are pastiches at best, forgeries at worst ("Donald MacGillivray"), and Scott and Burns before Hogg were all guilty of "polishing" or even composing "ancient" songs.

While understandable from a poetic or musical perspective, it certainly makes the study of the songs and their times more difficult.

That said, the song is now over 250 years old, and as the facts of its authorship have been confused or forgotten, one could make a case for its inclusion on sites like this - even though its author was most certainly not part of the "folk tradition" - being a toff.

Hope this helps clarify the matter.


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Subject: Lyr Add: HARDYKNUTE
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 22 Sep 07 - 12:08 AM

Here are the lyrics from the oldest publication of this ballad that I could find with Google Book Search -- "Ancient Historic Ballads," Newcastle: Printed and sold by D. Akenhead, 1807.

See WorldCat for other copies of the book.

HARDYKNUTE.
A
SCOTTISH FRAGMENT.

STATELY stept he east the way,
And stately stept he west,
Full seventy years he now had seen,
With scarce seven years of rest.
He lived, when Britain's breach of faith
Wrought Scotland mickle woe:
And aye his sword told to their cost
He was their deadly foe.

High on a hill his castle stood,
With halls and towers on height,
And goodly chambers fair to see,
Where he lodged many a knight.
His dame, so peerless once and fair,
For chaste and beauty deemed,
No marrow had in all the land,
Save Eleanor the queen.

Full thirteen sons to him she bore,
All men of valour stout;
In bloody fight with sword in hand
Nine lost their lives but doubt;
Four yet remain, long may they live
To stand by liege and land:
High was their fame, high was their might,
And high was their command.

Great love they bore to Fairly fair,
Their sister soft and dear,
Her girdle shewed her middle gimp,
And golden glist her hair.
What woeful woe her beauty bred!
Woeful to young and old,
Woeful I trow to kyth and kin,
As story ever told.

The king of Norse in summer tide,
Puffed up with power and might,
Landed in fair Scotland the isle,
With many a hardy knight.
The tidings to our good Scots king
Came, as he sat to dine,
With noble chiefs in brave array,
Drinking the blood-red wine.

"To horse, to horse, my royal liege,
Your foes stand on the strand,
Full twenty-thousand glittering spears
The king of Norse commands,"
"Bring me my steed, Mage, dapple gray,"
Our good king rose and cried,
A trustier beast in all the land
A Scots king never seyd.

Go, little page, tell Hardyknute,
Who lives on hill so high,
To draw his sword, the dread of foes,
And haste and follow me.
The little page flew swift as dart
Flung by his master's arm,
"Come down, come down, lord Hardyknute
And rid your king from harm."

Then red red grew his dark brown cheeks,
So did his dark brown brow;
His looks were keen, as they were wont
In dangers great to do.
He's ta'en a horn as green as glass,
And given five sounds so shrill,
That trees in greenwood shook thereat,
So loud rang ilka hill.

His sons, in manly sport and glee,
Had past their summer's morn,
When loud down in a grassy dale,
They heard their father's horn.
That horn, quoth they, ne'er sounds in peace,
We have some sport to bide,
And soon they hied them up the hill,
And soon were at his side.

"Late late yestrene I weened in peace
To end my lengthen'd life,
My age might well excuse my arm
From manly feats of strife;
But now that Norse does proudly boast
Fair Scotland to enthrall,
Its ne'er be said of Hardyknute
He feared to fight or fall.

Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow,
Thy arrows shoot so leil,
Many a comely countenance
They've turned to deadly pale.
Broad Thomas, take you but your lance,
You need no weapons mair,
If you fight wi't as you fought once
'Gainst Westmorland's fierce heir.

"Malcolm, light of foot as stag,
That runs in forest wild,
Get me my thousands three of men
Well bred to sword and shield:
Bring me my horse and harnessing,
My blade of metal clear.
If foes had kenned the hand it bore,
They soon had fled for fear.

"Farewell my dame, so peerless good,"
(And took her by the hand,)
"Fairer to me in age you seem,
Than maids for beauty famed:
My youngest son shall here remain
To guard these stately towers,
And shut the silver bolt that keeps
So fast your painted bowers."

And first she wet her comely cheeks,
And then her bodice green,
Her silken cords of twirled twist,
Well plat with silver sheen;
And apron set with many a dice
Of needle work so rare,
Wove by no hand, as you may guess,
Save that of Fairly fair.

And he has ridden o'er moor and moss,
O'er hills, and many a glen,
When he came to a wounded knight,
Making a heavy moan:
"Here must I lie, here must I die,
By treachery's false guiles;
Witless I was that e'er gave faith
To wicked woman's smiles."

"Sir knight, if you were in my bower,
To lean on silken seat,
My lady's kindly care you'd prove,
Who ne'er kenned deadly hate;
Herself would watch you all the day,
Her maids in dead of night;
And Fairly fair your heart would cheer,
As she stands in your sight.

"Arise young knight, and mount your steed,
Full lowns the shining day:
Choose from my menzie whom you please
To lead you on the way."
With smileless look, and visage wan,
The wounded knight replied,
"Kind chieftain, your intent pursue,
For here I must abide.

To me no after day nor night,
Can e'er be sweet or fair,
But soon, beneath some dropping tree,
Cold death shall end my care."
With him no pleading might prevail;
Brave Hardyknute to gain,
With fairest words and reasons strong,
Strove courteously in vain.

Syne he has gone far hind attowre
Lord Chattan's land so wide;
That Lord a worthy wight was aye,
When foes his courage seyed:
Of Pictish race by mother's side,
When Picts ruled Caledon,
Lord Chattan claimed the princely maid,
When he saved Pictish crown.

Now with his fierce and stalwart train,
He reached a rising height,
Where broad encamped on the dale,
Norse' menzie lay in sight.
"Yonder my valiant sons and fierce,
Our raging rovers wait,
On the unconquered Scottish sword
To try with us their fate.

Make orisons to him that saved
Our souls upon the rood;
Syne bravely show your veins are filled
With Caledonian blood."
Then forth he drew his trusty glaive,
While thousands all around
Drawn from their sheaths glanc'd in the sun,
And loud the bugle sound.

To join his king adown the hill
In haste his march he made,
While, playing pibrochs, minstrels meet
Afore him stately srode.
"Thrice welcome, valiant stoup of war,
Thy nation's shield and pride;
Thy king no reason has to fear
When thou art by his side."

When bows were bent and darts were thrown,
For throng scarce could they fly,
The darts clove arrows as they met,
The arrows dart the trie.
Long did they rage and fight full fierce,
With little skaith to man,
But bloody, bloody was the field,
Or that long day was done.

The king of Scots, that seldom bruiked
The war that looked like play,
Drew his broad sword, and broke his bow,
Since bows seemed but delay.
Quoth noble Rothsay, "Mine I'll keep
I wot it's bled a score."
Haste up my merry men, cried the king,
As he rode on before.

The king of Norse he sought to find,
With him to mense the fight,
But on his forehead there did light,
A sharp, unsonsy shaft;
As he his hand put up to find
The wound, an arrow keen,
O woeful chance! there pinned his hand
In midst between his ene.

"Revenge, revenge, cried Rothsay's heir,
Your mail-coat shall nought bide
The strength and sharpness of my dart:"
Then sent it through his side.
Another arrow well he marked,
It pierced his neck in twa,
His hands then quit the silver reins,
He low as earth did fa'.

"Sore bleeds my liege, sore, sore, he bleeds!"
Again, with might, he drew,
And gesture dread, his sturdy bow,
Fast the broad arrow flew:
Woe to the knight he ettled at,
Lament now queen Elgreid,
Hie dames to wail your darling's fall,
His youth and comely meid.

"Take off, take off his costly jupe
(Of gold well was it twined,
Knit like the fowler's net through which
His steely harness shined)
Take, Norse, that gift from me, and bid
Him 'venge the blood it bears;
Say, if he face my bended bow,
He sure no weapon fears."

Proud Norse, with giant body tall,
Broad shoulder and arm strong,
Cried "Where is Hardyknute so famed,
And feared at Britain's throne.
Tho' Britons tremble at his name,
I soon shall make him wail,
That e'er my sword was made so sharp,
So soft his coat of mail."

That brag his stout heart could not bide,
It lent him youthful might:
"I'm Hardyknute, this day," he cried,
"To Scotland's king I hecht,
"To lay thee low, as horse's hoof,
My word I mean to keep."
Syne with the first stroke e'er he struck,
He garred his body bleed.

Norse eyes, like grey goshawk's stared wild,
He sighed with shame and spite;
"Disgraced is now my far-famed arm,
That left thee power to strike:"
Then gave his head a blow so fell,
It made him down to stoop,
As low as he to ladies used
In courtly guise to lout.

Full soon he raised his bent body,
His blow he marvelled sair,
Since blows till then on him but darrd
As touch of Fairly fair:
Norse ferliet too as sore as he,
To see his stately look,
So soon as e'er he struck a foe,
So soon his life he took.

Where, like a fire to hether set,
Bold Thomas did advance,
A sturdy foe, with look enraged,
Up towards him did prance;
He spurred his steed through thickest ranks,
The hardy youth to quell,
Who stood unmoved at his approach,
His fury to repel.

"That short brown shaft so meanly trimmed,
Looks like poor Scotland's gear,
But dreadful seems the rusty point!"
And loud he laughed in jeer.
"Oft Briton's blood has dimmed its shine;
This point cut short their vaunt:"
Syne pierced the boist'rous, bearded cheek,
No time he took to taunt.

Short while he in his saddle swung,
Hi< stirrup was no stay,
So feeble hung his unbent knee
Sure token he was fey:
Swith one the hardened clay he fell,
Right far was heard the thud;
But Thomas looked not as he lay
All weltering in his blood.

With careless gesture, mind unmoved,
On rode he north the plain:
His seim in throng of fiercest strife,
When winner aye the same;
Not yet his heart dames dimpled cheek,
Could meise soft love to brook,
Till vengeful Anne returned his scorn,
Then languid grew his look.

In throes of death, with wallowit cheek,
All panting on the plain,
The fainting corpse of warriors lay,
Ne'er to arise again;
Ne'er to return to native land,
No more with blithsome sounds
To boast the glories of the day,
And shew their shining wounds.

On Norway's coast the widow'd dame
May wash the rocks with tears,
May long look o'er the shipless seas
Before her mate appears.
Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain;
Thy lord lies in the clay;
The valiant Scots no revers thole
To carry life away.

There on a lie, where stands a cross
Set up for monument,
Thousands full fierce that summer's day
Filled keen wars black intent.
Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute,
Let Norse, the name aye dread,
Aye how he fought, oft how he spaired,
Shall latest ages read.

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind,
Sore beat the heavy shower,
Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute
Wan neir his stately tower.
His tower that used with torches blaze,
To shine so far at night,
Seemed now as black as mourning weed,
No marvel sore he sigh'd.

"There's no light in my lady's bower,
There's no light in my hall;
No blink shines round my Fairley fair,
Nor ward stands on my wall.
What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say!"
No answer fits their dread.
"Stand back, my sons, I'll be your guide."
But by they passed with speed.

As fast I have sped o'er Scotland's foes
There ceased his brag of war
Sore shamed to mind ought but his dame,
And maiden Fairley fair.
Black fear he felt, but what to fear
He wist not yet with dread;
Sore shook his body, sore his limbs
And all the warrior fled.


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Mudcat time: 23 January 5:16 PM EST

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