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"O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;

It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me! Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,

And a' gude fellows that speir for me."

Then Red Rowan has hente him up,

The starkest man in Teviotdale"Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,

Till of my lord Scroope I take farewell.

"Farewell, farewell, my gude lord Scroope! My gude lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried "I'll pay you for my lodging maill,

When first we meet on the border side.”

Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; every stride Red Rowan made,

At

I wot the Kinmont's airns play'd clang!

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"O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,

"I have ridden horse baith wild and wud;

But a rougher beast than Red Rowan

I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.

"And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,
"I've prick'd a horse out oure the furs;
But since the day I back'd a steed,
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs !"

We scarce had won Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men on horse and foot,
Cam wi' the keen lord Scroope along.

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Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water,

Even where it flowed frae bank to brim,

And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,

And safely swam them through the stream.

He turn'd him on the other side,

And at lord Scroope his glove flung he-
"If ye lik na my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me!"

All sore astonish'd stood lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,

When through the water he had gane.

"He is either himsell a devil frae hell,

Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie."

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SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dunfermline towne,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,

To sail this new ship of mine?"

O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee, -

"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,

That ever sailed the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter

And seal'd it with his hand,

And sent it to sir Patrick Spens,

Was walking on the strand.

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"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
Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has done this deed,

And tauld the king o' me,

To send us out, at this time of the year,

To sail upon the sea?

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"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

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"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,

And a' our queenis fee."

"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lie:

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"For I brought as much white monie,

As gane my men and me,

And I brought a half-fou of gude red goud,

Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'!

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Our gude ship sails the morn,"

"Now, ever alake, my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the 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,

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When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 55 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."

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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 cam in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' silken claith,

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Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

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And let nae the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,

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And they wapp'd them round the gude ship's side,
But still the sea cam 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 flatter'd 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 nae 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!

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