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They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi' a' the speed they may,
And they hae landed in Noroway
They hadna been a week, a week,
'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.'
'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie!
"For I hae brought as much white monie
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd,
'Make ready, make ready, my merry men 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,
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
'O where will I get a gude sailor,
‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
He hadna gane a step, a step,
When a bolt flew out of our goodly ship,
'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,
And wap them into our ship's side,
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
But lang or a' the play was played
And mony was the feather-bed,
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
A' for the sake o' their true loves;
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
O forty miles off Aberdeen,
Scottish Border Minstrelsy.
I STOOD upon the sullen shore,
And marked the waves, with wild unrest, And with a deep continuous roar,
Break onward to their mother's breast.
But no glad greeting waited there
The sighing wanderers of the sea, No grassy lawn or flowerets gay,
But sterile sand's dull vacancy.
Wailing with upborne cry they haste
How looks Appledore in a storm?
I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic,
When surge after surge would heap enorme
A grinding, blinding, deafening ire.
And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked
As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, And to rise again, snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge,
While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap.
North, east, and south, there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres,
Bellowing, and gnashing, and snarling together;