SIR PATRICK SPENS

"For I hae brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me,

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And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Out o'er the sea wi' me.

“Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'!

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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 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 ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

'Oh, where will I get a gude sailor,

To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast,
To see if I can spy land?"

"Oh here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand,

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Till ye get up to the tall top-mast:
But I fear you 'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gane 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 wap them into our ship's side,

And letna 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, But still the sea came in.

Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scots lords

To wet 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 mony 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 of their true loves,

For them they'll see na mair.

SONG

Oh, lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' the goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll see na mair.

Oh, forty miles off Aberdour,
"Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

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SONG 1

FOR the tender beech and the sapling oak,
That grow by the shadowy rill,

You may cut down both at a single stroke,
You may cut down which you will.

But this you must know, that as long as they

grow,

Whatever change may be,

You can never teach either oak or beech

To be aught but a greenwood tree.

Thomas Love Peacock.

1 Note 9.

THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

YE Mariners of England

That guard our native seas!

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe:

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave,

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

OLD IRONSIDES

When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn ;

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell.

OLD IRONSIDES1

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

1 Note 10.

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