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110 SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
O, lead me, wheresoe'er I go,—
This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun
And let thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is all space,
One chorus let all being raise'
SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
The king sits in Dunfermline town,
"O, where shall I get a skeely skipper
O, up and spake an eldern knight, —
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
The king has written a braid letter,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
"To Noroway, to Noroway,
The king's daughter of Noroway,
The first line that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud, laughed he;
The tear blinded his e'e.
"O, 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, .
'T is 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;
Till all her sides were torn.
112 SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
"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,
But I fear you '11 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 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
And mony was the feather-bed
That flattered on the faem;
That never mair came hame.
The ladies wrang their fingers white,
O, lang, lang, may the ladies sit,
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
O, forty miles off Aberdeen,
'T is fifty fathoms deep,
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.
114 TO A MOUSE.
She lived unknown, — and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
The difference to me!
I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea;
What love I bore to thee.
'T is 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,
And thine, too, is the last green field
TO A MOUSE,
ON HEB NEST BEING TURNED UP BY A PLOUGH. — BuTUS,
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,
Wi' bickering brattle!
Wi' murdering pattle!