"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 fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,
Another of the twine,

And they wrapp'd them round that gude
ship's side,

But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed
That flatter'd on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair cam 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.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,

Before they

see Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the strand!

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80

84

88

92

96

And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they 'll see nae mair,

O forty miles off Aberdeen,

"T is fifty fathoms deep;

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet."

Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord

100

704

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL

GEORGE

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds

And she was overset ;

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

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12

His last sea fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

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20

24

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

28

1782.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

William Cowper.

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36

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

10

20

1801.

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,-

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell.

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40

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

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