In 1719, there appeared, in a folio sheet, at Edinburgh, a heroic poem styled _Hardyknute_, written in affectedly old spelling, as if it had been a contemporary description of events connected with the invasion of Scotland by Haco, king of Norway, in 1263. A corrected copy was soon after presented in the _Evergreen_ of Allan Ramsay, a collection professedly of poems written before 1600, but into which we know the editor admitted a piece written by himself. _Hardyknute_ was afterwards reprinted in Percy's _Reliques_, still as an ancient composition; yet it was soon after declared to be the production of a Lady Wardlaw of Pitreavie, who died so lately as 1727. Although, to modern taste, a stiff and poor composition, there is a nationality of feeling about it, and a touch of chivalric spirit, that has maintained for it a certain degree of popularity. Sir Walter Scott tells us it was the first poem he ever learned by heart, and he believed it would be the last he should forget. It is necessary to present a few brief extracts from this poem. In the opening, the Scottish king, Alexander III., is represented as receiving notice of the Norwegian invasion: The king of Norse, in summer pride, Puffed up with power and micht, Landed in fair Scotland, the isle, With mony a hardy knicht. The tidings to our gude Scots king Came as he sat at dine, With noble chiefs in brave array, Drinking the blude-red wine. 'To horse, to horse, my royal liege; Your faes stand on the strand; Full twenty thousand glittering spears The king of Norse commands.' 'Bring me my steed, page, dapple-gray,' Our good king rose and cried; 'A trustier beast in a' the land A Scots king never tried.' Hardyknute, summoned to the king's assistance, leaves his wife and daughter, 'Fairly fair,' under the care of his youngest son. As to the former lady-- ... first she wet her comely cheeks, And then her bodice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist, Well plet with silver sheen; And apron, set with mony a dice Of needle-wark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, But that of Fairly fair. In his journey, Hardyknute falls in with a wounded and deserted knight, to whom he makes an offer of assistance: With smileless look and visage wan, The wounded knight replied: 'Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abide. 'To me nae after day nor nicht Can e'er be sweet or fair; But soon beneath some dropping tree, Cauld death shall end my care.' A field of battle is thus described: In thraws of death, with wallowit cheek, All panting on the plain, The fainting corps[1] of warriors lay, Ne'er to arise again; Ne'er to return to native land, Nae mair, with blithesome sounds, To boast the glories of the day, And shaw their shining wounds.