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SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
The first line that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud, laughed he;
The tear blinded his e'e.
“0, wha is this has done this deed,
This ill deed done to me;
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."
“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;
Till all her sides were torn.
“O, where will I get a gude sailor
To take my helm in hand,
To see if I can spy land ?”
“O, here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
He hadna gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
And the salt sea it came in.
“Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,
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 ;
That never mair came hame.
The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
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.
She dwelt among the untrodden
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 ;
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire ;
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,
Wi' bickering brattle!
Wi' murdering pattle!
TO A MOUSE.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
An' never miss 't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ;
O’ foggage green!
Baith snell' and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an’stibble
Bur house or hald,
An' cranreuch' cauld!
1 An ear of corn, now and then.