A Collection of Ballads. Andrew Lang

auld moon in her arm;

       And if we gang to sea, master,

       I fear we’ll come to harm.”

      They hadna sail’d 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-masts 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 take my 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 take the helm in hand,

       Till you go up to the tall top-mast

       But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.”

      He hadna gane a step, a step,

       A step but barely ane,

       When a bout 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 na the sea come in.”

      They fetchd a web o the silken claith,

       Another o the twine,

       And they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side

       But still the sea came in.

      O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

       To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!

       But lang or a the play was play’d

       They wat their hats aboon,

      And mony was the feather-bed

       That fluttered 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.

BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE

       Table of Contents

      (Child, vol. vi.)

      It fell about the Lammas tide,

       When the muir-men win their hay,

       The doughty Douglas bound him to ride

       Into England, to drive a prey.

      He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,

       With them the Lindesays, light and gay;

       But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,

       And they rue it to this day.

      And he has burn’d the dales of Tyne,

       And part of Bambrough shire:

       And three good towers on Reidswire fells,

       He left them all on fire.

      And he march’d up to Newcastle,

       And rode it round about:

       “O wha’s the lord of this castle?

       Or wha’s the lady o’t?”

      But up spake proud Lord Percy then,

       And O but he spake hie!

       “I am the lord of this castle,

       My wife’s the lady gaye.”

      “If thou’rt the lord of this castle,

       Sae weel it pleases me!

       For, ere I cross the Border fells,

       The tane of us sall die.”

      He took a lang spear in his hand,

       Shod with the metal free,

       And for to meet the Douglas there,

       He rode right furiouslie.

      But O how pale his lady look’d,

       Frae aff the castle wa’,

       When down, before the Scottish spear,

       She saw proud Percy fa’.

      “Had we twa been upon the green,

       And never an eye to see,

       I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;

       But your sword sall gae wi’ mee.”

      “But gae ye up to Otterbourne,

       And wait there dayis three;

       And, if I come not ere three dayis end,

       A fause knight ca’ ye me.”

      “The Otterbourne’s a bonnie burn;

       ’Tis pleasant there to be;

       But there is nought at Otterbourne,

       To feed my men and me.

      “The deer rins wild on hill and dale,

       The birds fly wild from tree to tree;

       But there is neither bread nor kale,

       To feed my men and me.

      “Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,

       Where you shall welcome be;

       And, if ye come not at three dayis end,

       A fause lord I’ll ca’ thee.”

      “Thither will I come,” proud Percy said,

       “By the might of Our Ladye!”—

       “There will I bide thee,” said the Douglas,

       “My troth I plight to thee.”

      They lighted high on Otterbourne,

       Upon the bent sae brown;

       They lighted high on Otterbourne,

       And threw their pallions down.

      And he that had a bonnie boy,

       Sent out his horse to grass,

       And he that had not a bonnie boy,

       His ain servant he was.

      But up then spake a little page,

       Before the peep of dawn:

       “O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,

       For Percy’s