Penelope's Progress Part 15

"The King has written a braid letter And sealed it with his hand; And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

Read the letter out loud, Rafe, and then you'll remember what to do."

"'To Noroway! to Noroway!

To Noroway on the faem!

The King's daughter of Noroway, 'T is thou maun bring her hame,'"

read Rafe.

"Now do the next part!"

"I can't; I'm going to chuck up that next part. I wish you'd do Sir Pat until it comes to 'Ye lee! ye lee!'"

"No, that won't do, Rafe. We have to mix up everybody else, but it's too bad to spoil Sir Patrick."

"Well, I'll give him to you, then, and be the king. I don't mind so much now that we've got such a good tower; and why can't I stop up there even after the s.h.i.+p sets sail, and look out over the sea with a telescope? That's the way Elizabeth did the time she was king."

"You can stay till you have to come down and be a dead Scots lord. I'm not going to lie there as I did last time, with n.o.body but the Wrig for a Scots lord, and her forgetting to be dead!"

Sir Apple-Cheek then essayed the hard part "chucked up" by Rafe. It was rather difficult, I confess, as the first four lines were in pantomime and required great versatility:--

"The first word that Sir Patrick read, Fu' loud, loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e."

These conflicting emotions successfully simulated, Sir Patrick resumed:--

"'O wha is he has dune this deed, And tauld the King o' me,-- To send us out, at this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea?'"

Then the king stood up in the unstable tower and shouted his own orders:--

"'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our s.h.i.+p maun sail the faem; The King's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we maun fetch her hame.'"

"Can't we rig the s.h.i.+p a little better?" demanded our stage manager at this juncture. "It isn't half as good as the tower."

Ten minutes' hard work, in which we a.s.sisted, produced something a trifle more nautical and seaworthy than the first s.h.i.+p. The ground with a few boards spread upon it was the deck. Tarpaulin sheets were arranged on sticks to represent sails, and we located the vessel so cleverly that two slender trees shot out of the middle of it and served as the tall topmasts.

"Now let us make believe that we've hoisted our sails on 'Mononday morn' and been in Noroway 'weeks but only twae,'" said our leading man; "and your time has come now," turning to us.

We felt indeed that it had; but plucking up sufficient courage for the lords o' Noroway, we cried accusingly,--

"'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's gowd, And a' our Queenis fee!'"

Oh, but Sir Apple-Cheek was glorious as he roared virtuously:--

"'Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud, Fu' loudly do ye lee!

'For I brocht as much white monie As gane my men and me, An' I brocht a half-fou o' gude red gowd Out ower the sea wi' me.

'But betide me weil, betide me wae, This day I'se leave the sh.o.r.e; And never spend my King's monie 'Mong Noroway dogs no more.

'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a', Our gude s.h.i.+p sails the morn.'

Now you be the sailors, please!"

Glad to be anything but Noroway dogs, we recited obediently:--

"'Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

And if ye gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.'"

We added much to the effect of this stanza by flinging ourselves on the turf and embracing Sir Patrick's knees, with which touch of melodrama he was enchanted.

Then came a storm so terrible that I can hardly trust myself to describe its fury. The entire _corps dramatique_ personated the elements, and tore the gallant s.h.i.+p in twain, while Sir Patrick shouted in the teeth of the gale,--

"'O whaur 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?'"

I knew the words a trifle better than Francesca, and thus succeeded in forestalling her as the fortunate hero:--

"'O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast; But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.'"

And the heroic sailor was right, for

"He hadna gone a step, a step, A step but only ane, When a bout flew out o' our goodly s.h.i.+p, And the saut sea it came in."

Then we fetched a web o' the silken claith, and anither o' the twine, as our captain bade us; we wapped them into our s.h.i.+p's side and letna the sea come in; but in vain, in vain. Laith were the gude Scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shune, but they did, and wat their hats abune; for the s.h.i.+p sank in spite of their despairing efforts,

"And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam' hame."

Francesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins and personate the disheveled ladies on the strand.

"Will your hair come down?" asked the manager gravely.

"It will and shall," we rejoined; and it did.

"The ladies wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair."

"Do tear your hair, Jessie! It's the only thing you have to do, and you never do it on time!"

The Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her, and she tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands.

"And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kaims i' their hair, A waitin' for their ain dear luves, For them they'll see nae mair."

I did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah Siddons.

"Splendid! Grand!" cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty fathoms below the imaginary surface, and gave explicit ante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves out in like manner.

"Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, 'T is fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet."