LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. SIR PATRICK SPENS. Oh up and spake an eldern knight, Our king has written a braid letter, "To Noroway, to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame!" The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud laughèd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. "Oh wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out at this time of the year, "Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn They hadna been a week, a week 24 Till you go up to the tall topmast,— He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a boult 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 let nae the sea come in." They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, -But still the sea came in. Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords And mony was the feather-bed That float'd on the faem; That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white,- Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens AUTHOR UNKNOWN. THE HEIR OF LINNE. LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne: It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. ¦ His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree; But they, alas! were dead, him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the daye with merry cheare, It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, To alwaye spend and never spare, I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, Of gold and fee he mote be bare. Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne His house, and landes, and all his rent. His father had a keen stewàrde, And John o' the Scales was called hee: But John is become a gentel-man, And John has gott both gold and fee. Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, Let naught disturb thy merry cheere; Iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, Good store of gold He give thee heere. My gold is gone, my money is spent ; My lande nowe take it unto thee: Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee. Then John he did him to record draw, And John he cast him a gods-pennie; But for every pounde that John agreed, The lande, I wis, was well worth three. He told him the gold upon the borde. He was right glad his land to winne; The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ile be the Lord of Linne. Thus he hath sold his land soe broad, For soe he to his father hight. My soane, when I am gonne, sayd hee, Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free; But sweare me nowe upon the roode, That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend. The heire of Linne is full of golde: And come with me, my friends, sayd hee, Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. They ranted, drank, and merry made, Till all his gold it waxèd thinne; Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, And why shold I feel dole or care? But one, I wis, was not at home; Another had payd his gold away; Another call'd him thriftless loone, And bade him sharpely wend his way. Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, To beg my bread from door to door, Now Ile away to lonesome lodge, For there my father bade me wend: When all the world should frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend. PART SECOND, AWAY then hyed the heire of Linne O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne, Never a word spake the heire of Linne, Never a word he spake but three: "This is a trusty friend indeed, And is right welcome unto mee.” Then round his necke the corde he drewe, And sprang aloft with his bodie: When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, And to the ground come tumbling hee. Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he look'd, and sawe a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd. He took the bill, and lookt it on, Strait good comfort found he there: Itt told him of a hole in the wall, In which there stood three chests in-fere. Two were full of the beaten golde, The third was full of white money; And over them in broad letters These words were written so plaine to see: "Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. And when he came to John o' the Scales, And John himselfe sate at the bord-head, I pray thee, he said, good John o' the One forty pence for to lend mee. Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Then bespake the heir of Linne, | Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, And a good bargain it was to thee. Up then spake him John o' the Scales, And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, I drawe you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a gods-pennie : And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne. Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, To John o' the Scales wife then spake Ile make thee keeper of my forrest, hee: Madame, some almes on me bestowe, Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I sweare thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we should hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee. Then bespake a good fellowe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord; Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Both of the wild deere and the tame, Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales: Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife. Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne; AUTHOR UNKNOWN, SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. Of all the rides since the birth of time, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horn's twang, Over and over the Mænads sang: Sweetly along the Salem road Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd Like an Indian idol glum and grim, horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Small pity for him!-He sail'd away Scarcely he seem'd the sound to hear "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-- And off he sail'd through the fog and Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck rain! And hear a cry from a reeling deck! |