PART VII. POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. THE mournful funeral slow proceeds behind, Ere Mirth can well her comedy begin, JOHN WILSON. POEMS OF TRAGEDY AND SORROW. Sir Patrick Spens. THE king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "Oh where will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship of mine?" Oh up and spake an eldern knight, Our king has written a braid letter, "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, "Oh wha is this has done this deed, To send us out at this time of the year, "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn They hadna been a week, a week When that the lords o' Noroway "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd Fu' loud I hear ye lie! "For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me, And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd Out owre the sea wi' me. "Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, They hadna sailed a league, a league, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. |