Sir Patrick Spens

Anonymous

The King sits in Dunferline toun,
Drinkin the blude-reid wine
‘O whaur will A get a skeely skipper
Tae sail this new ship o mine?’

O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s richt knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailt the sea.’

Our king has written a braid letter
And sealed it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Wis walkin on the strand.

‘Tae Noroway, to Noroway,
Tae Noroway ower the faem;
The King’s dauchter o Noroway,
Tis thou maun bring her hame.’

The first word that Sir Partick read
Sae loud, loud laucht he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blindit his ee.

‘O wha is this has duin this deed
An tauld the king o me,
Tae send us out, at this time o year,
Tae sail abuin the sea?

‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship maun sail the faem;
The King’s dauchter o Noroway,
Tis we maun fetch her hame.’

They hoystit their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi aw the speed they may;
They hae landit in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men aw!
Our gude ship sails the morn.’
‘Nou eer alack, ma maister dear,
I fear a deadly storm.’

‘A saw the new muin late yestreen
Wi the auld muin in her airm
And gif we gang tae sea, maister,
A fear we’ll cam tae hairm.’

They hadnae sailt a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, an the wind blew loud
An gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, an the topmaist lap,
It was sic a deadly storm.
An the waves cam ower the broken ship
Til aw her sides were torn.

‘Go fetch a web o silken claith,
Anither o the twine,
An wap them into our ship’s side,
An let nae the sea cam in.’

They fetcht a web o the silken claith,
Anither O the twine,
An they wappp’d them roun that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
Tae weet their cork-heelt shuin;
But lang or aw the play wis playd
They wat their hats abuin.

And mony wis the feather bed
That flattert on the faem;
And mony wis the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi their fans intae their hand,
Afore they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailin tae the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waitin for their ane dear loes!
For them they’ll see nae mair.

Half-ower, half-ower to Aberdour,
Tis fifty fathoms deep;
An there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feet!

Sir Patrick Spens by Scottish anonymous - Scottish Poetry Library

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If Doughty Deeds

by R. Graham of Gartmore

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IF doughty deeds my lady please

Right soon I'll mount my steed;

And strong his arm, and fast his seat

That bears frae me the meed.

I'll wear thy colours in my cap,

Thy picture in my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye

Shall rue it to his smart!

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 Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

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If gay attire delight thine eye

I'll dight me in array;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,

And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,

These sounds I'll strive to catch;

Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,

That voice that nane can match.

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But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,

I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,

For you I wear the blue;

For you alone I strive to sing,

O tell me how to woo!

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 Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

 For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

IF DOUGHTY DEEDS_ENGLISH POETRY-Harvard Classics

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The Lea-Rig

by Robert Burns

When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrowed field
Return sae dowf and weary O:
Down by the burn where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I'd rove and ne'er be irie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O:
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wet,
And I were ne'er sae weary O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo,
At noon the fisher takes the glen,
Adown the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheary O
To meet thee on the lea-rig
My ain kind Dearie O.

My Ain Kind Dearie - poem by Robert Burns | PoetryVerse

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