And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide;

And she's ta'en her mantel her about,
Sat down at the bed side.

But the young cock crew in the merry Linkum, And the wild fowl chirped for day;

And the aulder to the younger said,

"Brother, we maun away.

“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin worm doth chide;

Gin we be missed out o' our place,

A sair pain we maun bide.'

"Lie still, lie still a little wee while,
Lie still but if we may;

Gin my mother miss us when she wakes,
She'll gae mad ere it be day."

O it's they've ta'en up ther mother's mantil
And they've hung it on a pin :

"O lang may ye hing, my mother's mantil,
Ere ye hap us again.'

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,
To sail this new ship o' mine! "-

O 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 laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

"O 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 it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must 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 ha'e landed in Noroway,

Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,

In Noroway, but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway

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 ha'e brought as much white monie,

As gane my men and me,

And I ha'e brought a half-fou of gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen 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 sail'd 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 topmasts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

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

"O 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?"

"O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go 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 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.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their coal-black shoon!

But lang or a' the play was play'd,
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 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.

O 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,
With 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!

"For them the viewless forms of air obey, Their bidding heed, and at their back repair; They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless oft, like moody madness stare,

And see the phantom train their secret work prepare."

The bride of Albin's line is o'er,

And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

Oh, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never feared a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!

Well can the Saxon widows tell,

How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's Pass you bore.

(1) Alas for the chief.