110

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
O, lead me, wheresoe'er Ï
Through this day's life or death.

go,

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all being raise'
All nature's incense rise!

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
"O, where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"

O, up and spake an eldern knight,-
Sat at the king's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea.”

The king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,

'T is thou maun bring her hame."

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.

"O, 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.

112

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

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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.

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"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 shij 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.

O, 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, 0,
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!