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 flattered 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 goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see na mair.
O forty miles off Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
[Footnote A: Suffice.]
[Footnote B: The eighth part of a peck.]
ANONYMOUS BALLAD
* * * * *
THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.
[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. The
Scotch point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of
the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.]
"Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says,
"And put on your armor so bright;
Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine
Was married to a lord under night.
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