reveiled anie sick maiter to me, I have thocht guide to direct this bearer unto you with my mind in that maiter, praying you to think that supoise thaise folkis waire durer to me nor thay are I walde think thaim weill bestowed that way which ye wish, and that ye may not think this to be only words to comfort you, I pray you to keep this as a band, to bind me with heirafter, and praying you to credit fully the bearer, I praye God send you your health, sic subtr JAMES R."

"Becaus, mi Lord, your hous has been so honest to my bearirs, yourself had the honour to be brocht up with me, sensyne married to my Auntie, and gotten the keiping of my twa greatest strenths, and (quhilk is maist of all) of my eldest and only sune, I think of reason I can lippen mair to nane, and nane can be mair obleist to me, and thairfor being utterly wearied and ashamed of the misgovernment of the country for laike of concurrence of noblemen on the ane part, and of my extream want on the other part, throw the mishandling of my rents be my carles and greedie officiars that intromaitts thairwith, I am forsit to burden you to travill with sick noblemen as I have alreadie named unto you that they wald bestow their pains and presence for putting me in sum better estate, and that ye wald tak thair promises to cum to Edinburgh the twinty of November nixt, and remaine quhill thay see mee putt in sum better certaintie in baith thir points, and that thay may know that as I am na mair a minour, sa I apprehend deeply the straits I am cast in, and am resolved to follow constantly thair councaill, bake thair conclusionis, and thankfully (quhen ever occasion sall serve) requite thair travaills. I have baith written and subscryved this your warrand with my hand, at Holyroud hous, the 11 Septr 1594, sic subscr JAMES R."

"Mi Lords of Marr, because in the suretie of my sonne consists my surety, and that I have concredited unto you the charge of his keiping upon the trust I have of your honestie, This present thairfore sall be ane warrand unto you not to deliver him out of your handis: except I comand with my owin mouth, and being in sick company as I myself sall best like of, otherwayes not to deliver him for any chairge or message that can cum from me; and in kayse God calls, me at any time, That neither for Queen nor Estates pleasure

ye deliver him quhile he be auchtein years of age. And that he comand you himself.

At Stirling the 24 of Julie, 1595: sic subscr JAMES R."

your

"I have thocht guid to direct the Bearer heirof unto you to desyre you to be advised befoir the hand, with sick things as may concern your honour and weill, and that mind and myne may baith gang ane gait, for I know my bypast actionis have sufficiently perswadit you that I am as cairfull for your honour and weill as you yourself can be' Thus, not doubting but ye will use as meikle of my advise, supoise I waire not a king, as of any other friend, and praying you to trust the Bearer, I bid you farewell: sic subscr JAMES R."

"John Sclaitis,* I have receavit your lettir, quhairby I se ye have done evin as I desyrit you. Now seeing ye have done sa, I will keip my promis made to you in my last lettir. Thairfore come in all haist. Ye sall credit your man the bearer. Fairweill. Your auld maister sic subscr

JAMES R."

"John Sclaitis, your lang absence has made me sa to lang, that I have thocht guid, as for readiest remedie of the saim, ye write ane lettir to me desiring to cum and visit me in respect of your lang absence, as likwaies another to the Duke, desiring him not to be an hinderer thairto. The cause quhy ye sall do this, the Shirray, bearer hereof, will shaw you mair at large (quhom ye sall credit,) but not at lenth, for his toung is our short. Fareweill. Your aulde maister, not forgettfull; sic subscr JAMES R."

A familiar appellation he gave to the earl.

XX.

GAELIC PROVERB.

Nuair a chaillis duin a storas,
Chan fhiu a sheòla no chomhairle.

When a man loses his means, his
instruction and counsel are of no value.

РР

SONG, OR Kaλλivika, in Celebration of ETHELSTAN'S grand Victory at Brunan-burh, paraphrased from the original Anglo-Saxon.

[OUR readers will doubtless smile at the following specimen of Saxon bombast; yet, it may be excusable, when it is considered that the "chirl" was accustomed to loud crowing. It is scarcely necessary to say, the Saxons never did, and never could (and history shall decide for us,) fight the British Celts upon equal terms. The paraphrase of the original is cleverly done.-EDRS.]

Here Ethelstan, the lord of peers,

Who o'er his chiefs his buckler rears,
The flower of chivalry;

His princely brother by his side
Chastised the Scotsman's swelling pride,

And won the victory.

The sons of Edward, bold and free,
Rush onward to their enemy,

In plains of Brunan-burh;

They cleave the endless wall of shields,
Before their might each banner yields,
They drive the legions off the fields,
And chase them o'er the moor.
Their father's blood, that in them flows,
Bids them defend from foreign foes
Their treasures and their home;
In vain the Scots, o'ercome in fight,
Would safety seek in rapid flight,
In vain avoid their doom;
On every side their numbers reel,
And, 'mid the din, the Saxon steel
Doth all around destruction deal,
And thousand eyes for ever seal
In death's eternal gloom.

And when next morn the merry† sun,
The lamp of God's eternal throne,

Arose his glorious course to run,

Oh what a sight he beam'd upon!

*The original may be seen in the Saxon Chronicle, anno Dom. 938, and also in the Linguarum Vet. Septentrionalium Thesaurus Gramma tico-criticus et Archæologicus of the erudite George Ilickes, S. T. P. vol. i. p. 181.

t glad.

On earth with death all covered o'er,-
On warriors welt'ring in their gore,-
On northman soldiers far and near
Nail'd to earth by Saxon spear;
That ev'ry ray from morn to night
Reflected back the hue of fight.
Fly, Northerns! fly! a chosen band
Of warriors from the southern land
Pursues your rearmost, sword in hand,

And mows your squadrons down;
And well the Mercian heroes brave,
The chieftains that with bold Anlate,
Have come athwart the turbid wave,
A crown for Sithric's sons to crave,
And shake the Saxon throne;
Five royal chieftains young and fair,
Lie pale and breathless reeking there,
Pierced by the Saxon brand;
And seven bold earls of Anlafe's race
Have found for aye a resting-place
Upon the Southerns' strand:
While thousands, that so lately o'er
The waves had sought the English shore,

Lie dead upon the sand.

And the lord of the Northmen hath fled o'er the main,
One skiff for his flight and one crew for his train;
A fugitive, vanquish'd, he flies from the coast,
O'er waves that are red with the blood of his host:
The hoarse din of Hilda he needed not raise,
'Mid the clash of the sword in discordant affrays.
Bereft of his kindred, bereft of his race,
Thus Constantine flies from the scene of disgrace
His flaxen-hair'd son he hath left on the field,
Too youthful and tender the falchion to wield,
Yet lovely as youthful, with mind soaring high
In the region of soul-he hath left him to die.
Nor hath he gain'd a better name
Than Anlafe in the field of fame,
Where battle's sounds did hoarsely ring,
With vict'ry dubious hovering ;*

Where clouds of shafts obscured the light,
When Scotland's legions met in fight,
And quail'd before the Saxon's might,
The vanquish'd Northmen in despair,
And hurry to their ships repair.

* Cumbelgahnader.

When the pursuit is o'er:
Disgraced, dejected, and deprest,*
They glide o'er ocean's stormy breast,
And seek the Irish shore.

The king and prince-the battle done,
The carnage o'er, the victory won—
To Wessex tend once more.
Alas! how many a noble wight,
Victim of pityless despight,

They leave upon the field of fight,
To feed the screamers+ of the night,
The sable raven and the kite,

And battle-falcon bold;

The eagle stoopeth from the skies,
The loathsome toad from earth doth rise,
And gray wolf from the wold.
For ne'er do ancient legends tell
Of slaughter such as now befell
In this our cherish'd isle,
Sith first the Saxon legions gave
Their vessels to the swelling wave,
And sought the British soil;
O'ercame by dint of lance and brand
Unconquer'd Cambria's dauntless band,
And won at last the British land

By labour, blood, and toil.

æiscmode

+ hpeamie.

In considering the ancient poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, the reader must not confound it with the delightful beauties that we call poetry. These are the creations of subsequent genius, and have sprung up, not in dark and ancient days, but in a succession of better times, during the many ages which followed, in which the general intellect of society gradually improving, taste and imagination also improved; those, on the contrary, rude and humble effusions of an uncultivated people, presenting rather the unlaboured elements of poetry than poetry itself. See Bosworth's Ang. Sax. Gram., pt. iv. chap. i. et seq.

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