rupted by various causes, such as tourneyis, joustis, and like divertisements met with by the way, in which our Knight hath always to participate.

The description of the Warldis end is perhaps the best part of this curious little romance. Our original is, however, so very much destroyed in this place, that we have deferred till another time giving any part or specimen of it.

This legend has a very tragical catastrophe, which is not generally the case in others of a like nature. It appears that the adventurous knight, having by some means or other succeeded in delivering the damsel from her thirldom dern, in a cave belonging to the Reid Woulff at the

Warldis allutermaist methe,

Fornentis the well of dule and dethe, proceeds in quest of further perils, accompanied by his fair prize, and the worthy Squyer aforesaid. After infinite travel they come into a strange country of a very unpromising aspect, and in which they have not advanced far till they are attacked by a discourteous "Geaunt grit as tre," who, captivated by the Ladyeis mervailous phisnomie

Of beautie rare and courtisie

bethinks him to make a seizure, without much ado. In this his Giantship is miserably deceived, for Schir Gormalyn being a genuine imp of Chivalrie, is not to be subdued or terrified by menace or blow, and accordingly a very furious duel is fought betwixt them. After various "felloun strakis" given and received on both sides, the giant is brought to the ground with a tremendous shock. But strange to tell, while in the act of falling he catches hold of the knight's steed by some of its furniture, and horse and man and all together tumble to the ground. In the affray, the head of the Reid Woulff, which it seems has been suspended somewhere about the horse's neck, becomes disengaged and falls beside the recumbent giant, who, though weak and exhausted by his late exertion seizes the fatal skull and hurls it right in the face of the knight. It unfortunately hits him on the cheek, and the ventale of his helmet being up, one of the Wolf's teeth-"lang, crukit, and of yellow hue on grene," makes a deep incision, and the same being suffused with a mortal poison, which the wolf had been accustomed to imbibe from the black waters of the well of "Dule and Deid," the wound proves fatal, for the knight shortly afterwards dies in the arms of the

maid he had rescued; and who having fallen in love with him for his courage, good services, and noble demeanour, becomes distracted at his loss-composes a Lai Mortel, and at last, in a fine heroical style, expires by his side. And with this, the whole in a great measure concludes.

More particulars respecting this metrical Romance, with some conjectures, touching its age and author, and as many more of its verses as can be deciphered, will appear in the "Gowpenfou of guidlie Conceitts, or Ragment of Rosie Rondellis and plesant metevis," to be published in the beginning of next year.

Here followis ane litill fang clepit

“Com hidder, com hidder, & let us woo."

Twa gentil birdis sat on ane tre,
Twa bonnie burdis as e'er culd be,
And as thay sat for ay thay sang,
Quhyl wuddis and rochis wi echois rang.

Com hidder, com hidder, mi bonnie dow,
Wi honeyit halse and dew dabbit mou,
And ay the ane sang to the uthir---

Com hither, bot nae delay come hither,
Com hidder, com hidder, & let us woo.

The sun rase hie in the purpour east,
And flichterit doun in the glumie west,
And nicht cam on befoir thair dune,
In singand of this gentil crune.

Com hidder, com hidder, &c.

Syne gaed thir birdis sua traist and free,
Be nichtfal to thair herbourie,

In suth to say, thair hertis wer licht,

Sithens they sang thorow the nicht.

Com hidder, come hidder, &c.

An account of this old song will be found in the publication referred to, in the note to the foregoing. In the meantime, we think it is one of the songs mentioned by Gawin Douglass, in his Prolouge to the XII. Booke Enea

dos." Edin. 1700, p. 404.

G

No. 2.

ANE EPISTLE DIRECTED FROM THE HOLY HEREMITE OF
ALLAREIT, TO HIS BRETHREN THE GRAYE FRERS.

:..

I, Thomas, hermite of Lareit,
Sanct Frances ordour hartely greit;
Beseiking you, with ferme intent,
To be wakryif and diligent.
For thir Lutherans, rissen of new,
Our ordour dayly dois persew.

Thir smaikis do set their haill intent
To read the Inglisch New Testment;
And sayis we have thame clein disceypit,
Therefore in hast they mon be stoppit.
Our Stait hypocrisie they pryiss,
And us blasphemis on this wyiss :
Sayand that we are heretykes,
And fals loud lying mastif tykes;
Cummerars and quellers of Christis kirk,
Sweir swyngeours that will not wirk,
But idelie our living wynnis,
Devouring wolfis into sheepe skinnis;
Hurkland with huidis into our nek,
With Judas mind to jouke and bek
Seikand Christis people to devoir,
The doun-thringers of Goddis gloir;
Professors of hypocrisie,

;

And Doctouris in idolatrie;
Stout fischeiris with the feyndis net,
The upclosers of hevins yett;
Cancart corruptars of the creede,
Humlock sawers amang gude seede;
To trow in trators that men do tyist,
The hye way kennand them fra Chryist.
Monsters with the beistis marke,
Dogges that never stintes to barke ;
Kirkmen that are to Christ unkend,
A sect that Sathanis selfe has send;

Lurkand in hoils lyke trator toddis,
Maintainers of idolles and false goddis;
Fantastike fuiles, and fenyeit fleichers,
To turn fra trueth the verray teachers.
For to declair their haill sentence,
Wald mekill cumber your conscience:
To say your faith it is sa stark ;
Your cord and lousie cote and sark;
Ye lippin may bring you to salvatioun,
And quyte excludis Chrystis passioun.
I dread this doctrine, and it last,
Sall outher gar us wirke or fast.
Thairfore with speede we menn provide,
And not our proffit ovirslide.

I schaip myselfe, within short quhile,
To course our Ladie in Argyle.
And thair on craftie wyse to wirk,
Till that we biggit haif ane kirk.
Syne miracles mak be your advice.
The kitterills, though they haif bot lyce,
The twa part to us they will bring.
But orderlie to dresse this thing,

A Gaist I purpose to gar gang,

Be counsayll of frear Walter Lang; Quhilk sall make certaine demonstrations To help us in our procurations,

Your hailie order to decoir.

That practick he proved anis befoir,
Betwixt Kircaldie and Kinghorne ;
But lymmaris made therat sic skorne;
And to his fame made sic degression,
Synsyne he hard not Kingis confession.
Thouch at that time he cam no speide,
I pray you tak gude will as deide;
And so me amang you ressave,
As ane worth mony of the lave.
Quhat I obtaine may, throuch his airt,
Reason wald ye had your pairt.
Your order handillis na monie ;
But for other casualtie,

As beefe, meale, butter, and cheese,
Or quhat we haif, or that ye pleese,
To send your brethren & habete.
As now nocht ellis but valete,

Be Thomas your bruther at command,

A culrunne kythit throuch mony a land.
Alex. Cunninghame, Earl of Glencairn.

THE SOLSEQUIUM;

OR, THE LOVER COMPAIRING HIMSELF TO A SUN-FLOWER.

Lyk as the dum Solsequium with cair owrecum

Dois sorrow, quhen the sun gois out of sight,

Hings doun his heid, and droupis as deid, and will not spreid,
But lukis his levis throw langour all the nicht,

Til fulisch Phaeton aryse with quhip in hand
To purge the christal skyis, and licht the land.
Birds in thair bower wait on that hour,

And to thair King ane glade gude-morrow gives,
Frae than that flowir lists not to lour,

But laughs on Phebus lowsing on his levis.

Swa stands with me, except I be quhair I may se
My lamp of licht, my lady and my luve,
Frae scho depairts, a thousand dairts in sindrie airts
Thirle thruch my heavy heart, bot rest or ruve.

My countenance declairs my inward grief,

And houp almaist dispairs to find relief.

I die, I dwyne, play dois me pyne,

I loth on every thing I luke, allace!

Till Titan myne upon me schyne,

That I revive thruch favour of hir face.

Frae scho appeir into hir sphere, begins to cleir

The dawing of my lang desyrit day.

Then courage cryis on houp to ryse quhen he espyis

The noysum nicht of absens went away;

No noyis, frae I awalke, can me impesche,
But on my staitly stalk I flurische fresche,
I spring, I sprout, my leivis ly out,
My collour changis in ane hairtsum hew;