SIR PATRICK SPENCE. The first 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, 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, 111 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, 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, And mony was the feather-bed And mony was the gude lord's son, LUCY. 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, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spence, 113 LUCY.-Wordsworth. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Fair as a star, when only one 114 TO A MOUSE. 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, '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. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 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! An' bleak December's wind ensuin', Baith snell' and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch' cauld! 2 Rest. 115 3 Build. |