SIR PATRICK SPENS.

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 owre the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

O where will I get a gude sailor
To take 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 take 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 boult flew out of our goodly ship,
And the saut sea it cam in.

"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in."

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side;
But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords

To weet 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.

1

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 gowd kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves;
For them they'll see na mair.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

O forty miles off Aberdour

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

ANONYMOUS.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
Το
see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed-as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths-angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air:
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

LEIGH HUNT.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side;

But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords

To weet 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 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 gowd kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves;
For them they'll see na mair.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

O forty miles off Aberdour

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

ANONYMOUS.

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed-as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see

Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air:
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

LEIGH HUNT.