By SIR WALTER SCOTT

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, "'T were better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung;
"She is won! we are gone; over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Let us see how many things we can find out about this poem. The first thing we think of is that it tells a story—just one story, without any outside, disconnected incidents. Then we notice that the style is very simple, that the meter is easy and swinging, and that the last line of every stanza is almost like a refrain. There is one other thing: the author does not show in the poem at all; that is, the poem is strictly a story, without comments by the author or any expressed moral.

This poem of Lochinvar belongs to a class of poems called ballads, all of which possess some, at least, of the characteristics which we have found in Lochinvar. All ballads do not have refrains, but all ballads do contain narratives in simple, often rude style. Most ballad stanzas have only four lines, though Scott uses six for this.

The history of ballad poetry is very interesting. In all nations, it is believed, it has been the earliest form of poetry, and it is thought that the great heroic poems, such as the Cid of the Spaniards and the Nibelungenlied of the Germans, grew out of ballads. These early ballads were not written down; they were sung, or recited, and in thus being handed down by word of mouth, they underwent many changes, so that in time it could very well be said that a popular ballad had no one author—it belonged to all the people.