And when they come to Kynge Adland's halls,

Before the goodlye yate

There they found good Kyng Adland,

Rearing himself thereatt.

"Nowe Christe thee save, good Kyng Adland,

Now Christ thee save and see!"

Said, "You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right heartily unto me."

"You have a daughter," said Adler yonge,

'Men call her bright and sheene,

My brother wold marry her to his wyfe,
Of England to be queene."

"Yesterday was at my deare daughter,
Syr Bremor the Kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye,
I feare she'll do you the same."

"The King ef Spayne is a foule paynim,
And 'lieveth on Mahound;

And pitye it were that fayre ladye,
Shold marry a heathen hound."

"But grant to me," sayes Kyng Estmere,

For my love I you praye,

That I may see your daughter deare,

66

Before I goe hence awaye."

Although itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,

She shall come downe once for your sake,
To glad my guestés all."

Down then came that mayden fayre,
With laydes laced in pall,

And half a hundred of bolde knightes,

To bring her from bowre to halle;
And eke as many gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.

[Scott has almost literally copied the four last lines of this stanza in the first canto of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." One of the many obligations that we owe to these old unknown poets, is the inspiration that Sir Walter drew from them, an inspiration to be traced almost as frequently in his prose, as in his verse.]

The talents of golde were on her head sette

Hunge lowe down to her knee;

And every rynge on her smalle finger

Shone of the chrystall free.

Sayes, “Christ you save, my deare madáme ;”
Sayes, "Christ you save and see!"

Sayes, "You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,

'He wolde pull down my halles and castles,

And reeve me of my lyfe;

And ever I feare that paynim kyng,

If I reeve him of his wyfe."

"Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of that foul paynim,

Wee neede not stande in doubte.

"Plyghte me your troth nowe, Kyng Estmere,
By Heaven and your righte hande,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queen of your lande."

Then Kyng Estmere, he plight his troth,
By Heaven and his right hand,
That he would marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queen of his lande.

And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To go to his own contree;

To fetch him dukes, and lordes, and knightes,
That marryed they might be.

They had not ridden scant a myle,

A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,

With kempés many a one.

But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,

With many a grim baròne

Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter,

Tother day to carrye her home.

Then she sent after Kyng Estmere,
In all the spede might bee,

That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladye.

One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;

Till he had o'ertaken Kyng Estmere,

I wis he never blanne.

"Tydinges! tydinges! Kyng Estmere!"
"What tydinges nowe, my boye ?"
"Oh, tydinges I can tell to you,

That will you sore annoye.

“You had not ridden scant a myle,

A myle out of the towne,

But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,

With kempés many a one.

"But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,

With many a bold baròne

Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter, Tother day to carry her home.

"That ladye faire she greetes you well,

And evermore well, by me:

You must either turne again and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladye."

Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,

My reade shall ryde at thee,

Which waye we best may

turne and fighte,

To save this fayre ladye ?"

"And your reade must rise at me,

I quicklye will devise a waye,

To sette thy ladye free.

"My mother was a western woman,

And learned in gramaryé,

And when I learnéd at the schole,

Something she taught itt me.

"There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,
And iff it were but known,
His color which is whyte and redde,
It will make blacke and browne.

"His color which is browne and blacke,
It will make redde and whyte;
That sworde is not all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.

"And you shall be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countrée ;

And I'll be your boye so faine of fighte,
To bear your harpe by your knee.

"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."