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LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.
THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
"Oh where will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"

Oh up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of 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,
To sail upon the sea?

"Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet,
Our ship maun sail the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn
Wi' a' the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week
In Noroway, but twae,

24

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Till you go 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 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
To weet their cork-heel'd shoon!
But lang or a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed

That float'd on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son

That never mair cam 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 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 strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,--
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

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

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

THE HEIR OF LINNE.
PART FIRST.

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,
To drink and revell every night,
To card and dice from eve to morne,

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
Till all his gold is gone and spent ;
And he maun sell his landes so broad,

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,
Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
That stood far off in a lonely glenne.

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;
And then his friendes they slunk away;
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne.
He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny left but three,
And one was brass, another was lead,
And another it was white money.

Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne,
Nowe well-adaye, and woe is mee,
For when I was the Lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold nor fee.
But many a trustye friend have I,

And why shold I feel dole or care?
Ile borrow of them all by turnes,
Soe need I not be never bare.

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,
Now well-aday, and woe is me;
For when I had my landes so broad,
On me they liv'd right merrilee.

To beg my bread from door to door,
I wis, it were a brenning shame:
To rob and steal it were a sinne:
To worke my limbs I cannot frame.

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,

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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;
For but thou amend thee of thy life,
That rope must be thy end at last.”

And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne;
And let it bee, but if I amend :
For here I will make mine avow,
This reade shall guide me to the end.

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,
Upp at the speere then looked hee;
There sate three lords upon a rowe,
Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himselfe sate at the bord-head,
Because now Lord of Linne was hee.

I pray thee, he said, good John o' the
Scales,

One forty pence for to lend mee.

Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
Away, away, this may not bee:
For Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
If ever I trust thee one pennie.

Then bespake the heir of Linne,

| Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ·
Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need bee.

And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him sit in thy companie:
For well I wot thou hadst his land,

And a good bargain it was to thee.

Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All wood he answer'd him againe :
Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd,
But I did lose by that bargàine.

And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
Before these lords so faire and free,
Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape
By a hundred markes, than I had it of
thee.

I drawe you to record, lords, he said.

With that he cast him a gods-pennie :
Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne,
And here, good John, is thy money.

And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
And layd them down upon the bord:
All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he cold say never a word.
He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth mickle dinne.
The gold is thine, the land is mine,

And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne.

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
Forty pence thou didst lend mee:
Now I am againe the Lord of Linne,
And forty pounds I will give thee.

To John o' the Scales wife then spake Ile make thee keeper of my forrest,

hee:

Madame, some almes on me bestowe,
I pray for sweet saint Charitìe.

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;
Some time thou wast a well good lord:

Both of the wild deere and the tame,
For but I reward thy bounteous heart,
I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.

Now welladay! sayth Joan o' the Scales:
Now welladay! and woe is my life!
Yesterday I was Lady of Linne,

Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.

Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne;
Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee:
Christs curse light on me, if ever again
I bring my lands in jeopardy.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN,

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,-
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al Borák,---
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a
a cart

By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rain'd-on fowl,
Feather'd and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Push'd and pull'd up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd
horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a

corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horn's

twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

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Sweetly along the Salem road
Bloom of orchard and lilac show'd.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,

"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
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-
Sail'd away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by lay by!" they call'd to him.
Back he answer'd, “Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"

Scarcely he seem'd the sound to hear
Of voices shouting far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd
horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,--
"What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?

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!

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