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SONGS FOR BOYHOOD. |
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When that the lords o' Norroway Began aloud to say:
" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,
And a' our queenis fee." " Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu' loud I hear ye lie !
" For I brought as mickle white monie
As gane my men and me� And I brought a half-fou* o' gude red goud
Out ower the sea wi' me.
" Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a',
Our gude ship sails the morn." " Now, ever alake ! my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm!
" I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm."
They hadna sailed upon the sea
A day but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew
And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak', and the topmasts lap,
It was sic a deadly storm ; And the waves came ower the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.
il Oh, where will I get a gude sailor
To tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to the tall topmast
To see if I can spy land ?"
" Oh, here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak' the helm in hand, Till you gae up to the tall topmast�
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
" Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, |
And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in."
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Auither o' the twine, And they wapped them into that gude ship's side,
But still the sea cam' in.
Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wreet their milk-white hands; But lang ere a' the play was ower
They wat their gowden bands.
Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; But lang ere a' the play was played
They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather-bed
That floated on the faem; And many was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair; , A' for the sake o' their true-loves� For them they'll see nae mair.
Oh, lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the land!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waitiug for their ain dear loves� For them they'll see nae mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,
It's fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. |
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THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Henby Wad8\vokth Longfellow.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands. |
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* " Half-fou," half-bushel. |
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