"And you shall be the best harper,
That ever took harp in hand,
And I will be the best singer,
That ever songe in the land.

"It shal be written in our forheads,
All and in gramaryé,

That we twoe are the boldest men,
That are in all Christentye."

And thus they renisht them to ryde,
On twoe good renisht steedes,

And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle,

Of redd gold shone their weedes.

And when they came to Kyng Adland's halle,

Until the fayre hall yate,

There they found a proud portér,

Rearing himselfe thereatt.

Sayes, "Christ thee save, thou proud portér," Sayes, "Christ thee save and see."

"Now you be welcome," sayd the portér, "Of what land soever ye be."

"We been harpers," sayd Adler yonge, "Come out of the north countrée; We been come hither untill this place, This proud wedding for to see."

Sayd, "An your color were whyte and redd,
As it is blacke and browne,

I'd say Kyng Estmere and his brother,
Were comen until this towne."

Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
Layd it on the porter's arme,

"And ever we will thee proud portér,
Thou wilt say us no harme."

Sore he looked on Kyng Estmere,
And sore he handled the ryng,

Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.

Kyng Estmere he light off his steede,

Up at the fayre hall board;

The frothe that came from his bridle bitte, Light on Kyng Bremor's beard.

Sayes, "Stable thy steede, thou proud harpér,
Goe stable him in the stalle;

It doth not become a proud harpér,
To stable him in a kyng's halle."

"My ladde he is so lither," he sayd, "He will do nought that's meete,

And aye that I could but find the man,

Were able him to beate."

"Thou speakest proud wordes," sayd the paynim king, "Thou harper, here to me;

There is a man within this halle,

That will beate thy ladd and thee."

"O lett that man come down," he sayd,
"A sight of him wolde I see,
And when he hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee."

Downe then came the kemperye man,
And looked him in the eare,

For all the golde that was under heaven,

He durst not neigh him neare.

"And how nowe, kempe," sayd the Kyng of Spayn,

"And now what aileth thee?"

He sayes, "It is written in his forehead,

All, and in gramaryé,

That for alle the golde that is under heaven,

I dare not neigh him nye."

Kyng Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,
And played thereon so sweete,

Upstarte the ladye from the kyng,

As he sate att the meate.

"Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harpér,
Now staye thy harpe I saye;

For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye."

He struck upon his harpe agayne,
And playde both fair and free;
The ladye was so pleased thereatt,
She laughed loud laughters three.

"Now sell me thy harpe," said the Kyng of Spayn,

Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,

And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,

As there be stryngs thereon."

"And what wolde ye doe with my harpe ?" he sayd,

"If I did sell it yee?"

"To playe my wyfe and I a fitt,

When we together be."

"Nowe sell me, Sir Kyng, thy bryde soe gay,

As she sits laced in pall,

And as many gold nobles I will give,

As there be ryngs in the hall."

"And what wolde ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her yee?"

"More seemly it is for that fair ladye

To wed with me than thee."

Through help of gramarye,

That soon they have slayne the kemperye men,

Or forst them forth to flee.

Kyng Estmere took that fayre ladye,

And married her to his wyfe,

And brought her home to merry England,
With her to leade his lyfe.

I must not, however, attempt to quote more of those fine old ballads here; the feuds of the Percy and the Douglas would take up too much space; so would the loves of King Arthur's court, and the adventures of Robin Hood. Even the story of the Heir of Lynne must remain untold; and I must content myself with two of the shortest and least hackneyed poems in a book that for great and varied interest can hardly be surpassed. The "Lie," is said to have been written by Sir Walter Raleigh the night before his execution. That it was written at that exact time is pretty well disproved by the date of its publication in “Davison's Poems," before Sir Walter's death; it is even uncertain that Raleigh was the author; but that it is of that age is beyond all doubt; so is its extraordinary beauty-a beauty quite free from the conceits which deform too many of our finest old lyrics.

Go, Soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go tell the Court it glows

And shines like rotten wood;

Go tell the Church it shows
Men's good, and doth no good:
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others' actions,

Not loved unless they give,

Not strong but by their factions:

If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

Tell zeal it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters.
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how she falters;
And as they shall reply,
Give each of them the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And if they do reply,

Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;

Tell skill it is pretension;

Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:

And if they dare reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming ;

Tell schools they want profoundness,

And stand too much on seeming :

If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.