I have been harsh and most severe to thee,
And turned thee out in thy misery
To seek thy fortune, this I must confess;
How can you pity me in my distress?

In duty, father, I can all forgive,
And farther, while I have a day to live,
What I have promis'd I will surely do;
The Lord hath prosper'd me to comfort you.

Soon after this they from the prison go;
He clothed his father from the top to toe,
And plac'd him in his happy state once more,
For which he gain'd the love of rich and poor.

[This oalad was written by Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop ot Dromore in Ireland; a poet and a man of taste,' says Sir Walter Scott, (Minstrelsy, i. 44, &c., who, commanding access to the individuals and institutions which could best afford him materials for executing the task of collecting and illustrating ancient popular poetry gave the public the result of his researches in a work entitled Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' (London, 1765); a work which must always be held among the first of its class in point of merit, and which the taste with which the mate rials were chosen, the extreme felicity with which they were illustrated, the display at once of antiquarian knowledge and classical reading which the collection indicated, render it difficult to imitate, and impossible to excel. How deepl indebted to the 'learned and amiable prelate's, work t present collection is, the reader of it does not require to reminded. It was not merely as a collector and illustr however, 'a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff, the doctor excelled: for in the actual imitation ancient ballad," says the great authority already e he was eminently successful. The Hermit of War and other minstrel tales of his composition, must remembered with fondness by those who have per in that period of life when the feelings are stro taste for poetry, especially of this simple nature poignant. The ballad was first published in 1 title, The Hermit of Warkworth. AN Ballad. In three Fits or Cantos' London: edition it is here taken. It was accom troduction and Notes, such parts of whi to the understanding, or pertinent in found in the Notes]

ARK was the night, and

And loud the torrent
And loud the sea was
Against the distan

[This ballad was written by Walter Scott, 'at Mertounhouse, the beautiful seat of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden. in the autumn of 1799,' (Life, by Lockhart e. ix.) and first appeared in Lewis' Tales of Wonder.' The catastrophe,' says Sir Walter, (Minstrelsy,' iv. 68,) is founded upon a well known Irish tradition. The incidents, except the hints alluded to in the notes, are entirely imaginary; but the scene was that of my early childhood, and seemed to claim from me this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale. Some idle persons had, during the proprietor's absence, torn the iron-grated door of Smailholm Tower from its hinges, and thrown it down the rock. I was an earnest suitor to my friend and kinsman, Mr. Scott of Harden, that the dilapidation might be put a stop to, and the mischief repaired. This was readily promised, on condition that I should make a ballad, of which the scene should be at Smailholm Tower, and among the crags where it is situated.' The ballad thus made' was the Eve of St. John, in which, says Mr. Lockhart, he re-peoples the tower of Smailholm, and touches the one superstition which can still be appealed to with full and perfect effect; the only one which lingers in minds long since weaned from all sympathy with the machinery of witches and goblins. And surely that mys tery was never touched with more thrilling skill than in this noble ballad."]

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,
His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew
To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour,

And weary was his courser's pace
As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood,

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen Lord Ivers stood;

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,

His acton pierc'd and tore;

His axe and his dagger with blood embrued,
But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still,

And he whistled twice for his little foot page
His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot page,

Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young, and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.

Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true;

Since I from Smaylho'me Tower have been,
What did thy Lady do?"

"My Lady each night, sought the lonely light,
That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For from height to height, the beacons bright,
Of the English foemen told.

The bittern clamour'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill,

Yet the craggy pathway she did cross