And of the rest, of small account,
    Did many hundreds die: 
  Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace,
    Made by the Earl Piercy.

  God save the king, and bless this land,
    With plenty, joy, and peace;
  And grant, henceforth, that foul debate
    ’Twixt noblemen may cease.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

[A confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285.]

  The king sits in Dunfermline town,
    Drinking the blude-red wine,
  “O whare will I get a skeely skipper,
    To sail this new ship of mine!”

  O up and spake an eldern knight,
    Sat at the king’s right knee,—­
  “Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
    That ever sailed the sea.”

  Our king has written a braid letter,
    And sealed 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 hae 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 brought as much white monic,
    As gane[A] my men and me,
  And I brought a half-fou[B] o’ 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 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 topmasts lap,
    It was sic a deadly storm;
  And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,
    Till a’ her sides were torn.