“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 are,
  When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
    And the salt sea it came in.

  “Gae, fetch a web o’ silken claith,
    Another o’ the twine,
  And wap them into our ship’s side,
    And let na 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.

  O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
    To weet their cork-heeled shoon! 
  But lang or a’ the play was played,
    They wat their hats aboon.

  And mony was the feather-bed,
    That flattered 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 na 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,
    Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair,
  A’ waiting for their ain dear loves! 
    For them they’ll see na mair.

  O forty miles off Aberdeen,
    ’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
  And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
    Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

[Footnote A:  Suffice.]

[Footnote B:  The eighth part of a peck.]

ANONYMOUS BALLAD

* * * * *

THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries.  The Scotch point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.]

  “Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas,” she says,
    “And put on your armor so bright;
  Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
    Was married to a lord under night.

  “Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons,
    And put on your armor so bright,
  And take better care of your youngest sister,
    For your eldest’s awa the last night.”

  He’s mounted her on a milk-white steed,
    And himself on a dapple grey,
  With a bugelet horn hung down by his side,
    And lightly they rade away.

  Lord William lookit o’er his left shoulder,
    To see what he could see,
  And there he spyed her seven brethren bold,
    Come riding over the lea.