NARRATIVE POEMS

OLD BALLADS

SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
'O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?'

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the se.'

The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,

Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he;

The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

'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,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme.'

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.

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,
It's fiftie fadom deip,

And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.

JOHNIE ARMSTRONG

THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmereland,
Jonnë Armestrong men did him call,
He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.

He had horse and harness for them all,
Goodly steeds were all milke-white;
O the golden bands an about their necks,
And their weapons, they were all alike.

Newes then was brought unto the king
That there was sicke a won as hee,
That lived lyke a bold out-law,

And robbed all the north country.

The king he writt an a letter then,
A letter which was large and long;
He signed it with his owne hand,

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,
Laced with silver lace so white;

O the golden bands an about your necks,
Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.'

By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
Towards Edenburough gon was hee,

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,
'O pardon my eight score men and mee!'

Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, For thy eight score men nor thee;