110 SIR PATRICK SPENCE. Mean though I am, not wholly so, This day be bread and peace my lot; Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, To Thee, whose temple is all space, SIR PATRICK SPENCE. THE king sits in Dunfermline town, O, up and spake an eldern knight, - The king has written a braid letter, "To Noroway, to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame." The first line that Sir Patrick read, The next line that Sir Patrick read, "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. 'O, where will I get a gude sailor "O, here am I, a sailor gude, He hadna gone a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, 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, And mony was the feather-bed And mony was the gude lord's son, The ladies wrang their fingers white, A' for the sake of their true loves, O, lang, lang, may the ladies sit, And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, O, forty miles off Aberdeen, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence, LUCY.-Wordsworth. 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 I travelled among unknown men, 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel And she I cherished turned her wheel Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed, TO A MOUSE, ON HER NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH.- Burns. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! |