“He set ane reid-pipe till his muthe
    And he playit se bonnileye,
  Till the gray curlew and the black-cock flew
    To listen his melodye.

  “It rang se sweit through the grim Lommond,
    That the nycht-winde lowner blew: 
  And it soupit alang the Loch Leven,
    And wakenit the white sea-mew.

  “It rang se sweit through the grim Lommond,
    Se sweitly but and se shill,
  That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis,
    And dancit on the mydnycht hill.”

  “Around her slepis the quhyte muneschyne,
    (Meik is mayden undir kell),
  Hir lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne;
    (The rois of flouris hes sweitest smell).

  “It was al bricht quhare that ladie stude,
    (Far my luve fure ower the sea). 
  Bot dern is the lave of Elfinland wud,
    (The Knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me).

  “The ladie’s handis were quhyte als milk,
    (Ringis my luve wore mair nor ane). 
  Hir skin was safter nor the silk;
    (Lilly bricht schinis my luve’s halse bane).”

Upon the whole, the most noteworthy of Motherwell’s original additions to the stores of romantic verse were his poems on subjects from Norse legend and mythology, and particularly the three spirited pieces that stand first in his collection (1832)—­“The Battle-Flag of Sigurd,” “The Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim,” and “The Sword Chant of Thorstein Randi.”  These stand midway between Gray’s “Descent of Odin” and the later work of Longfellow, William Morris and others.  Since Gray, little or nothing of the kind had been attempted; and Motherwell gave perhaps the first expression in English song of the Berserkir rage and the Viking passion for battle and sea roving.

During the nineteenth century English romance received new increments of heroic legend and fairy lore from the Gaelic of Ireland.  It was not until 1867 that Matthew Arnold, in his essay “On the Study of Celtic Literature,” pleading for a chair of Celtic at Oxford, bespoke the attention of the English public to those elements in the national literature which come from the Celtic strain in its blood.  Arnold knew very little Celtic, and his essay abounds in those airy generalisations which are so irritating to more plodding critics.  His theory, e.g., that English poetry owes its sense for colour to the Celts, when taken up and stated nakedly by following writers, seems too absolute in its ascription of colour-blindness to the Teutonic races.  Still, Arnold probably defined fairly enough the distinctive traits of the Celtic genius.  He attributes to a Celtic source much of the turn of English poetry for style, much of its turn for melancholy, and nearly all its turn for “natural magic.”  “The forest solitude, the bubbling spring, the wild flowers, are everywhere in romance.  They have a mysterious life and grace there; they are Nature’s own children, and utter her secret in a way which makes them something quite different from the woods, waters, and plants of Greek and Latin poetry.  Now, of this delicate magic, Celtic romance is so pre-eminent a mistress that it seems impossible to believe the power did not come into romance from the Celts.”