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Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up and crew the grey;

'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg❜ret, That you were gane awa.'

SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dumfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship 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 sailed the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway ower the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway "Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud loud laughed he;

The reist 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 o' year,

To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter o' 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 have brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me,

And I hae brought a half-fou of gude red gould

Out o'er the sea wi' me.

'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'!

Our good ship sails the morn.'

'Now ever alack, 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 top-mast 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 the 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 tak the helm in hand,

Till you go up to the tall top-mast,
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gaen a step, a step

A step but barely ane,

When a boult 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 nae 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 came 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,
With their goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, "Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!

HAME, HAME, HAME

HAME! hame! hame! O hame fain wad I be!

O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie.

When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the

tree,

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';

But we'll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!

Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!

O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

O, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be !
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, who attempted to save;
The green grass is growing abune their graves;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be !

O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

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