And by him sat ane byzenit boie,
Ane brat of brukit breide;
His moder wals ane weirdlye witche
Of Queen's foreste the dreide;

But whether the devil did him bygette,
Or ane droiche of elfinlande.
Or ane water-kelpie horrible
I colde not understande.

But hee had not tasted broz that daie,
Nor kirne-mylke, wheye, nor brede;
So hunger raif at his yung herte,

And wals like to be his dede. And aye he said, "Dere maister mine, Quhat spring is that you playe? For there are listeniris gadderyng rounde, And I wish we were awaye."

"Quhat doste thou se, my bonny boie,
I pray the tell to mee?

I won these notis fra the fairye folke
Benethe the grene-wode tre;

"And I weenit it wals ane charmed spryng,
By its wilde melodye:
Och wo is me that I am blynde!

Littil boie, quhat doste thou se ?" "I see the hartis but an the hyndis, Stand quakyng to the morne, And wildlye snouke the westlin wyndis, And shaike the braken horne:

"And the littel wee raes they cour betwine, With their backis of dapplit greye: And the gaitis they are waggyng their auld greye berdisLorde, sin we were awaye!"

"Sit still, sit still, my bonny boie;

I haif shawit you, with gode wille, Ane littil of the powris of grande moseke,

I will show you greater stille.

“Lende me thyne eire, and thou shalt heire Some thrylling fallis I wis,

By mynstrelis maide, and eithlye playit,
In oder worldis than this."

Blynde Robene liftit his stokel horne,
And brughit all full cleine,

It wals laide with the eevorye and the

And hold that heavenly braith of thyne
Or the soundis will be mine deide."

"Ha! sayest thou soe, mine bonny boie?
To mee thou art still more deire!
I trowit not of thyne taiste before,
Nor of thyne blessit eire.

"But looke the rounde, my bonny boie,
And looke to holme and heathe,
And caste thyne eyne to heavin abone,
And to the yird benethe,

"And note the shadowis and the shapis
That hover on hill and gaire;
And tell me trowlye, my bonny boie,
Of all thou seest there."

The elfin stoode up on his feite,

And Robenis bruste he saynit;
And aye he chatterit with his tethe,
And grefously he grainit:

And the sobbis that rase fra his stamocke
Wolde birste ane herte of claye;
But neuir ane worde he saide but this
"Lorde, sin we were awaye!"

Blynde Robene stymit him rounde about,
And he gapit gastrouslye-
"Och tell mee, tell mee, my littil boie,
Of all that thou dost se ?".

"I se the cloudis creipe up the hill,
And down the hill likewise;
And there are spiritis gadderyng rounde
Fra baithe the yird and skyis;

"The ghastis are glyming with their deide

eyne

Lapperit with mist and claye, And they are fauldyng out their wynding shetis,

And their flyche is faidyng awaye."

"If that be true, my bonny boie,

Strainge visiteris are rife!

Welle, we moste gif them ane oder spryng, To sweiten their waesome life.

"I nefer kenit, so helpe mee heavin,

The ghastis had had soche skille;
Or knewe so welle ane maisteris hande;
Sothe theye moste haif their fille.

"For come they up, or come they downe,
The ghast or the elfin greye,
Till the fairies come and heire their spryng
I cannot goe awaye."

"Och deire! och deire!" thochte the littil boie,

The teire blynding his ee, "We are far fra ony meite or drynk,

Quhat wille become of mee?

"Och, holde thyne hande, deire maistere mine,

For pitye's saike now staye, Or helle wille sone be aboute our luggis, And deirlye we shalle paye; Y y

"Their robis are maide of the gossamere,
Wove of the misty sheine,
And dyit in the rainbowis gaudy gaire
Sae glancyng and sae grene."

Blynde Robene clewe his tufted heide,
And raif his auld graye hayre,

And the teris wolde haif fallen from his eyne,

Had anie eyne bene there;

He turnit up his cleire face for braith,
And to eisse his crouchand backe;
And then he toutit and he blewe,

Quhille bethe his luggis did cracke.

"Och hold your hand, deire maistere mine!"

Cryit the boie with yírlisch screime, "For there is the devil comyng on With his eyne like fierye gleime;

"His fingeris are like lobster tais,

And long als barrow tramis;
His tethe are reide-hot tedderstakis ;
And barkit are his hammis:

"His tail it is ane fierye snaike

Aye writhyng farre behynde, Its fangis are two cloth yardis in lenth, And it is coolyng them in the wynde."

Blynde Robenis face grew lang and brede,

And his lyppe begoude to falle ;"That is ane gueste, mine little boie, I lyke the worst of all!

"The fairyis are mine own deire folkis;

The ghostis are glyding geire; But the devil is ane odir chappe!

Lorde! quhad's he sekying here?".

Blynde Robene maide, als he wolde rise,
To Aye als he were faine;
But the fairye damis came in his minde,
And he crouch'd him downe againe.

"Come well, come wo, I shall not goe,"
Saide Robene manfullye,
"I will playe to my welcome fairye folkis,
And the devil may raire for mee."

Againe the notis knellit throu the ayre
Sae mychtie and sae deavin,
For ilkane burel hole he loosit,

Ane hole wals blown in heavin;

And the soundis went in, and the soundis went ben,

Quhille the folkis abone the skie,
And the angelis caperit ane braif corante
Als they went stroamying bye.

The powris of moseke wals sae greate,
Sae mychtie and devyne,
That Robene raivit for very joie

Quille his quhite eyne did shyne;

And his cleire countenance wals blente With a joie and a pryde sublyme "There is no hope!" quod the littil boie, "He will playe quhille the end of tyme !"

But in the grenewode ower the hill
There graissit ane herde of kyne,
Waidyng in grene gerse to the knes,
And gropellying lyke to swyne;

For they snappit it with their muckil mouis,

Quhille sullenlye they lowit; And aye they noddit their lang quhyte hornis,

And they chumpit and they chowit. Och they were fierce! and nefer fødde At mainger nor at stalle;

But among them there wals ane curlye bulle,

The ferceste of them alle.

His hornis were quhite als driven snowe, And sharpe als poynted pole;

But his herte wals blacker than his hide, Thoche that wals like ane cole.

This bulle hee hearit blynde Robenis notis Pass ower his heide abofe,

And he thouchte it wals ane kindlye cowe Rowting for gentel lofe.

And this bulle hee thochtis into himselle How this braife courteous cowe Mychte haif passet far for lofe that daye, And travellit fausting too.

"I will goe and meite her," thochtis the bulle,

Als gallante brote sholde doo. And this bulle hee thochtis into himselle, "This dame rowtis mychtie loude !

I will send furth ane voice shall make her quaile,

And she shall not be sac proude!"
And ower the hill, and down the hill,
The bulle came roaryng furth,
And with his hofe but an his horne

He ture the shaikyng yirth;
And aye hee brullyit and aye hee bruffit,

Quhile his braith it singit the grasse ; And then he raisit his noz and squeclit Rychte lyke ane coddye asse.

But the wofulle boie hee laye acrose,
And grapplit on the grounde,
And with the blare of Robenis horne
He nefer hefrde the sounde!

But the soundis they percit blynde Robenis eire,

For ane sherpe eire hald hee: "Is that the devil, my littil boie, That rairis sae boysterouslye ?"

And he has hevit up blynde Robene,
And tossit him like ane reide;
And aye he shoke his curly powe,
To drive him from his heide.

And he was in ane grefous frychte,
Yet wist not quhat to feire,

But he laye acrosse like an ousen yoke,
Mervillyng quhat wals asteer.

But hald you seine the devilish boie;
An ill deide mot hee de!
Hee leuch until he tint all powris,
Als hee sat on his tree.

Then the bulle he gaif Robene ane toss,
By some unchauncy fling,

And owre the verge of the Bowman Lynne
He maide the auld man to swing.

At first he flewe acrosse the voide,
Then downward sank like lede,
Till hee fell into ane hazil boshe,

Saft als ane fether bedde.

And there he laye, and there he swung, Als lychte als lefe on tree;

He knew nochtis of his graite daingere,
Nor yet of his safetye.

And the bulle he broolyit and he trootit
Outower the Bowman Lynne,
And sore he yernit for life bloode,
But durste not venter in.

Poore Robene herde the defenyng noisse,
And laye full sore aghast;

At length he raisit his forlorne houpe,
To charme him with ane blaste.

Whenevir the bulle hee herde the soundis,

His aunger byrnit like helle,

And rounde the rocke he raschit in raige,
But missit his fote and felle.

And down the bank and down the brae
He bumpit and he blewe;
And aye he stoatted frae the stonis,
And flapperit as he flewe.

He wals like ane mychtie terre barrelle
Gawn bombyng down the steipe,
Quhille he plungit in the howe of the
Bowman Lynne,

Full fiftie faddom deipe.

And the ekois claumb frae rocke to rocke,
Roryng the dark wode under,
And yollerit, yollerit, frae the hillis,
Like ane ryving cleppe of thunder.
"Holla! quhat's that?" cryit blynde
Robene,

"Is there anie here to telle ?" "It is the bulle," quod the little boie, "You haif charmit him down to helle.

"The mychtie featis that you haif done,
This beatis them all to daye!
Rysse up, rysse up, deire maistere minc,
I will guide you on your wayc."

Och Robene wals ane braif proude man
That daye on Bowman brae,
And he braggit of that mornyngis featis
Until his dying daye.

And aye his quhite face glowit sublyme,
And aye his brente browe shone ;
Ane thoche hee toulde ane store of les,

To help it there wals none.

He saide that he drew the dapplit raeis
Frae out the dingillye delle,
The nut-browne harte but an the hinde
Downe frae the hedder belle;

And broughte the gaitis, with their graye berdis,

Far from the rockye glenne,
And the fairyis from some plesaunt lande
That Robene did not kenne.

And then hee tauld how hee raisit the deide,
In their wynding shetis so quhite,
And how the devil came from his denne
And lystenit with delychte:

How he brochte the bulle of Norrawaye
Outower the sea-waife grene,

And charmit him down to the pytte of helle,

Quhare he nefer more wals seen.

But then the false and wickede boie,
He nefer wolde allow

That hee charmit ouchtis but ane wycked bulle,

Quha tooke him for ane cowe. May nefer poore mynstrel wante the worde That drawis the graitfulle teire, Nar ane waywarde brat his mornying broz, For bothe are harde to beire.

MORALITAS.

Och nefer bydde ane bad mynstrelle playe,
Nor seye his mynstrelsye,
Onlesse your wyne be in your honde,
And your ladye in your ee.

Ane singil say will set him on,
And sympil is the spelle;
But he nefer will gif ofer againe,
Not for the devil himselle.

FAIRY LEGENDS.

From J.M. Thiele's "Popular Traditions of the Danes."

(Translated from the Danish.) Huer mand lagde til og tog fra, blanded deriblandt meget sit egen dict.

Lysc. Slectebog, Præf. VI.

Every man added or omitted something, and mixed up many inventions of his own with the story.

IN the invirons of Hirschholm, on Hösterkiöb Mark, are two hills, Mangelbierg and Gillesbicrg, which