OLD BALLADS SIR PATRICK SPENS THE king sits in Dumferling toune, Up and spak an eldern knicht, The king has written a braid letter, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, The next line that Sir Patrick red, 'O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se? 'Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:' 'O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. 3 'Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, O our Scots nobles wer richt laith O lang, lang may their ladies sit, O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, JOHNIE ARMSTRONG THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmereland, He had horse and harness for them all, Newes then was brought unto the king And robbed all the north country. The king he writt an a letter then, And he promised to doe him no wrong. When this letter came Jonnë untill, His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree: 'Never was I sent for before any king, My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. 'And if wee goe the king before, I would we went most orderly; Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, Laced with silver laces three. 'Every won of you shall have his velvett coat, O the golden bands an about your necks, By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, And with him all his eight score men; Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see! When Jonne came befower the king, He fell downe on his knee; 'O pardon, my soveraine leige,' he said, Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee; |