They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,

Wi' a' the speed they may,

And 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 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
As gane my men and me,

And I brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd,
Out o'er the sea wi' me.

'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,
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.

'O where will I get a gude sailor,
To tak my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall topmast,
To see if I can spy land?'

‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak the helm in hand,
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 bolt 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 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 wet their cork-heeled shoon!

But lang or a' the play was played
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 o' 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,
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.

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

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
As if relief, redress to find;
But on cold stones their passion waste,
Then back recoil, and die resigned.



How looks Appledore in a storm?

I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic,
Butting against the maddened Atlantic,

When surge after surge would heap enorme
Cliffs of emerald topped with snow,
That lifted and lifted, and then let go
A great white avalanche of thunder,

A grinding, blinding, deafening ire.
Monadnock might have trembled under;

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;

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