THE following piece hath run through two editions in Scotland: the second was printed at Glasgow in 1755, 8vo. Prefixed to them both is an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of this poem was oving "to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;" and "any reader that can render it more correct or complete," is desired to oblige the public with such improvements. In consequence of this advertisement, sixteen additional verses have been produced and handed about in manuscript, which are here inserted in their proper places: (these are from verse 109 to verse 121, and from verse 124 to verse 129, but are perhaps, after all, only an ingenious interpolation.)

As this poem lays claim to a pretty high antiquity, we have assigned it a place among our early pieces: though, after all, there is reason to believe it has received very considerable modern improvements: for in the Editor's ancient MS. collection is a very old imperfect copy of the same ballad: wherein though the leading features of the story are the same, yet the colouring here is so much improved and heightened, and so many additional strokes are thrown in, that it is evident the whole has undergone a revisal.

N. B. The Editor's MS., instead of "Lord Barnard," has "John Stewart;" and instead of "Gil Morrice," "Child Maurice," which last is probably the original title. See above, p. 337.

GIL MORRICE was an erlès son,
His name it waxed wide;
It was nae for his great richès,
Nor zet his mickle pride;

Bot it was for a lady gay,

That livd on Carron side.

Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,

That will win hose and shoen; That will gae to Lord Barnards ha', And bid his lady cum? And ze maun rin my errand, Willie ; And ze may rin wi' pride; Quhen other boys gae on their foot, On horse-back ze sall ride.

O no! oh no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld baròns,

For to triest furth his wife.
My bird Willie, my boy Willie;
My dear Willie, he sayd:
How can ze strive against the stream?
For I sall be obeyd.

Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,

In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.
Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',

Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.

Gae bid hir take this gay mantèl,

'Tis a' gowd bot the hem; Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,

And bring nane bot hir lain: And there it is, a silken sarke, Hir ain hand sewd the sleive; And bid hir cum to Gill Morice, Speir nae bauld barons leave.

Ver. 11, something seems wanting here. V. 32, and 68, perhaps, 'bout the hem.

I.

-CONTAINS a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story books; and is commonly entitled "A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry achieved by that noble knight Sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a hermit, and dyed in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from Warwick."

The history of Sir Guy, though now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. Although of English growth, it was early a favourite with other nations: it appeared in French in 1525; and is alluded to in the old Spanish romance Tirante el blanco, which, it is believed, was written not long after the year 1430. See advertisement to the French translation, 2 vols. 12mo.

The original whence all these stories are extracted is a very ancient romance in old English verse, which is quoted by Chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time (viz.),

"Men speken of romances of price, Of Horne childe and Ippotis,

Of Bevis, and Sir Guy, &c." (R. of Thop.) and was usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and brideales, as we learn from Puttenham's Art of Poetry, 4to., 1589.

For bad tydinges I bring you,
In Northumberlande there is no man,
But that they be slayne everychone:
For there dare no man route,
By twenty myle rounde aboute,
For doubt of a fowle dragon,
That sleath men and beastes downe.
He is blacke as any cole
Rugged as a rough fole;
His bodye from the navill upwarde
No man may it pierce it is so harde;
His neck is great as any summere;
He renneth as swifte as any distrere;
Pawes he hath as a lyon:

All that he toucheth he sleath dead downe.
Great winges he hath to flight,
That is no man that bare him might.
There may no man fight him agayne,
But that he sleath him certayne:
For a fowler beast then is he,
Ywis of none never heard ye.”

Sir William Dugdale is of opinion that the story of Guy is not wholly apocryphal, though he acknowledges the monks have sounded out his praises too hyperbolically. In particular, he gives the duel fought with the Danish champion as a real historical truth, and fixes the date of it in the year 926, ætat. Guy 67. See his Warwickshire.

"A messenger came to the king. Syr king, he sayd, lysten me now,

It is here published from an ancient MS. copy in the Editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black letter in the Pepys collection.