All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort,

My voyage from her I did take Unto the blessed Holy-Land,

For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake.

Where I Erle Jonas did redeeme,

And all his sonnes, which were fifteene,

Who with the cruell Sarazens.

In prison for long time had beene.

I slew the gyant Amarant

In battel fiercelye hand to hand,

And doughty Barknard killed I,

A treacherous knight of Pavye land.

Then I to England came againe,

And here with Colbronde fell I fought;

An ugly gyant, which the Danes

Had for their champion hither brought.

And afterwards I offered upp

The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought,

In sight of manye farr and nye.

But first neare Winsor, I did slaye

A boar of passing might and strength; Whose like in England never was

For hugeness both in bredth and length.

Some of his bones in Warwicke yett
Within the castle there doth lye;
One of his sheeld-bones to this day
Hangs in the citye of Coventrye.

On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe

A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Call'd the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath; Which manye people had opprest.

C

Some of her bones in Warwicke yett
Still for a monument doth lye,
And there exposed to lookers viewe,
As wondrous strange, they may espye.

A dragon in Northumberland

I alsoe did in fight destroye,

Which did bothe man and beast oppresse,

And all the countrye sore annoye.

At length to Warwicke I did come,

Like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne;

And there I lived a hermitt's life

A mile and more out of the towne.

Where with my hands I hewed a house
Out of a craggy rocke of stone,
And lived like a palmer poore
Within that cave myself alone:

And daylye came to begg my bread
Of Phelis att my castle gate;

Not knowne unto my loved wiffe,
Who dailye mourned for her mate.

Till att the last I fell sore sicke,

Yea, sicke soe sore that I must dye;

I sent to her a ring of golde,

By which shee knew me presentlye.

Then she repairing to the cave,

Before that I gave up the ghost,

Herself closd up my dying eyes;

My Phelis faire, whom I lov'd most.

My body that endured this toyle,

Though now it be consumed to mould,

My statue, faire engraven in stone,

In Warwicke still you may behold.

THE CHILD OF ELLE.

“From a fragment in the Editor's folio MS. which, though extremely defective and mutilated, appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt the completion of the story. The reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original."-PERCY.

Nyonder hill a castle standes,

With walles and towres bedight,
And yonder lives the Child of Elle,
A younge and comely knighte.

The Child of Elle to his garden wente,
And stood at his garden pale,

Whan, lo! he beheld fair Emmeline's page
Come trippinge downe the dale.

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence,

Ywis he stoode not stille,

And soone he mette faire Emmeline's page

Come climbing up the hille.

"Nowe Christe thee save, thou little foot-page,
Now Christe thee save and see!

Oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye,

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And what may thy tydinges bee?"

My lady shee is all woe-begone,

And the teares they falle from her eyne;
And aye she laments the deadlye feude
Betweene her house and thine.

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe,
Bedewde with many a teare,

And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her,
Who loved thee so deare.

And here shee sends thee a ring of golde,
The last boone thou mayst have,
And biddes thee weare it for her sake,
Whan she is layde in grave.

For, ah her gentle heart is broke,

And in grave soone must shee bee,

Sith her father hath chose her a new, new love, And forbidde her to think of thee.

Her father hath brought her a carlish knight, Sir John of the north countraye,

And within three dayes shee must him wedde, Or he vowes he will her slaye.”

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
And greet thy ladye from mee,

And telle her that I, her owne true love,

Will dye, or sette her free.

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page,
And let thy fair ladye know,

This night will I be at her bowre-windowe,
Betide me weale or woe."

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne,
He neither stint ne stayd,

Until he came to fair Emmeline's bowre,
When kneeling downe he sayd :

"O ladye, Ive been with thy own true love, And he greets thee well by mee;

This night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, And dye or sette thee free."