Golden Numbers Part 72

Inconsequent, fascinating, high-handed, impossible, picturesque, these old ballads have come to us from the childhood of the world, and still speak to the child-heart in us all.

XV

TALES OF THE OLDEN TIME

_Sir Patrick Spens_

The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new s.h.i.+p o' mine!"

O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,-- "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That ever sail'd the sea."

The king has written a braid letter, And seal'd 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 s.h.i.+p 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 lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lee.

"For I brought as much white monie, As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!

Our gude s.h.i.+p 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 had not 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 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 ane, When a bout flew out o' our goodly s.h.i.+p, And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our s.h.i.+p's side, And letna the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither of the twine, And wapped them round that gude s.h.i.+p's side, But still the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon!

But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed, That floated o'er the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair came 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.

Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, It's fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

OLD BALLAD.

_The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington_

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde.

And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,-- "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee."

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "Will ease me of much paine."

"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne."

"At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "Where I have had many a scorne."

"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffe's daughter of Islington."

"She is dead, sir, long agoe."

"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe."

"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride."