SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

111

The first line that Sir Patrick read,

Sae loud, loud, laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,

The tear blinded his e'e.

“0, wha is this has done this deed,

This ill deed done to me;
To send me out, this time o' the year,

To sail upon the sea ?

“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway,

'Tis we must fetch her hame.

“ Make ready, make ready, my merry men all !

Our gude ship sails the morn."
Now, ever alake, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.

“Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon

Wi' the old moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, my dear master,

That we will come to harm."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,

And gurly grew the sea.

The anchors brak, and the topmasts lap,

It was sik a deadly storm;
And the waves came o'er the broken ship,

Till all her sides were torn.

“O, where will I get a gude sailor

To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;

To see if I can spy land ?”

“O, here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast ;
But I fear you 'll ne'er spy

land.”

He hadna gone a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,
When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

“Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,
And wap them into our ship's side,

And let nae the sea come in.”

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,

And still the sea came in.

O, laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played,

They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed

That flattered on the faem ;
And mony was the gude lord's son,

That never mair came hame.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,

The maidens tore their hair,
A' for the sake of their true loves,

For them they 'll see nae mair.

0, lang, lang, may the ladies sit,

Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spence

Come sailing to the land.

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,

Wi' their gold kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves !

For they'll see them nae mair.

O, forty miles off Aberdeen,

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

LUCY.- Wordsworth.

She dwelt among the untrodden

Sui

ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love,

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, - and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, O,

The difference to me!

I travelled among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea ;
Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed,

The bowers where Lucy played ; And thine, too, is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

TO A MOUSE,

ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. - Burns.

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,
O, what a panic 's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hastie,

Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi' murdering pattle!

TO A MOUSE.

115

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live;
A daimen-icker' in a thrave

'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,

An' never miss 't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ;
Its silly wa’s the wins are strewin;
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O’ foggage green!
An' bleak December's wind ensuin',

Baith snell' and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an’stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou 's turned out, for a' thy trouble,

Bur house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,