Yes, mother dear, I am here, I know I have staid very long; But a little penknife was stuck in my heart, Till the stream ran down full strong.
And mother dear, when you go home, 45 Tell my playfellows all, That I lost my life by leaving them When playing that game of ball.
And ere another day is gone, My winding-sheet prepare, 50 And bury me in the green churchyard Where the flowers are bloomin' fair.
Lay my Bible at my head, My testament at my feet; The earth and worms shall be my bed, 55 Till Christ and I shall meet.
SIR PATRICK SPENS. See p. 147.
From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, i. 1.
The King sits in Dunfermline town, A-drinking at the wine; Says, "Where will I get a good skipper Will sail the saut seas fine?"
Out it speaks an eldren knight 5 Amang the companie,-- "Young Patrick Spens is the best skipper That ever sail'd the sea."
The king he wrote a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his ring; 10 Says, "Ye'll gi'e that to Patrick Spens: See if ye can him find."
He sent this, not wi' an auld man, Nor yet a simple boy, But the best o' nobles in his train 15 This letter did convoy.
When Patrick look'd the letter upon A light laugh then ga'e he; But ere he read it till an end, The tear blinded his e'e. 20
"Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a', An' see ye be weell thorn; For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind, My guid ship sails the morn."
Then out it speaks a guid auld man, 25 A guid death mat he dee,-- "Whatever ye do, my guid master, Tak' God your guide to bee.
"For late yestreen I saw the new moon, The auld moon in her arm." 30 "Ohon, alas!" says Patrick Spens, "That bodes a deadly storm.
"But I maun sail the seas the morn, And likewise sae maun you; To Noroway, wi' our king's daughter,-- 35 A chosen queen she's now.
"But I wonder who has been sae base, As tauld the king o' mee: Even tho' hee ware my ae brither, An ill death mat he dee." 40
Now Patrick he rigg'd out his ship, And sailed ower the faem; But mony a dreary thought had hee, While hee was on the main.
They hadna sail'd upon the sea 45 A day but barely three, Till they came in sight o' Noroway, It's there where they must bee.
They hadna stayed into that place A month but and a day, 50 Till he caus'd the flip in mugs gae roun', And wine in cans sae gay.
The pipe and harp sae sweetly play'd, The trumpets loudly soun'; In every hall where in they stay'd, 55 Wi' their mirth did reboun'.
Then out it speaks an auld skipper, An inbearing dog was hee,-- "Ye've stay'd ower lang in Noroway, Spending your king's monie." 60
Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens,-- "O how can a' this bee?
I ha'e a bow o' guid red gowd Into my ship wi' mee.
"But betide me well, betide me wae, 65 This day I'se leave the shore; And never spend my king's monie 'Mong Noroway dogs no more."
Young Patrick hee is on the sea, And even on the faem, 70 Wi' five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons, That lang'd to bee at hame.
They hadna sail'd upon the sea A day but barely three, Till loud and boistrous grew the wind, 75 And stormy grew the sea.
"O where will I get a little wee boy Will tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to my tapmast, And see for some dry land?" 80
He hadna gane to his tapmast A step but barely three; Ere thro' and thro' the bonny ship's side, He saw the green haw sea.
"There are five-an-fifty feather beds 85 Well packed in ae room; And ye'll get as muckle guid canvas As wrap the ship a' roun';
"Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not, And mak' her hale and soun'." 90 But ere he had the word well spoke The bonny ship was down.
O laith, laith were our guid lords' sons To weet their milk-white hands; But lang ere a' the play was ower 95 They wat their gowden bands.
O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons To weet their coal-black shoon; But lang ere a' the play was ower They wat their hats aboon. 100
It's even ower by Aberdour It's fifty fathoms deep, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, And a's men at his feet.
It's even ower by Aberdour, 105 There's mony a craig and fin, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' mony a guid lord's son.
Lang, lang will the ladyes look Into their morning weed, 110 Before they see young Patrick Spens Come sailing ower the fleed.
Lang, lang will the ladyes look Wi' their fans in their hand, Before they see him, Patrick Spens, 115 Come sailing to dry land.
From Buchan's _Ballads of the North of Scotland_, ii. 39.
It fell about the Lammas time, When wightsmen won their hay; A' the squires in merry Linkum, Went a' forth till a play.
They play'd until the evening tide, 5 The sun was gaeing down; A lady thro' plain fields was bound, A lily leesome thing.
Two squires that for this lady pledged, In hopes for a renown; 10 The one was call'd the proud Seaton, The other Livingston.
"When will ye, Michaell o' Livingston, Wad for this lady gay?"
"To-morrow, to-morrow," said Livingston, 15 "To-morrow, if you may."
Then they hae wadded their wagers, And laid their pledges down; To the high castle o' Edinbro'
They made them ready boun'. 20
The chamber that they did gang in, There it was daily dight; The kipples were like the gude red gowd, As they stood up in hight; And the roof-tree like the siller white, 25 And shin'd like candles bright.
The lady fair into that ha'
Was comely to be seen; Her kirtle was made o' the pa', Her gowns seem'd o' the green. 30