by Paul Keegan
To send me out this time o’ the yeir,
20
To sail upon the se?
Mak haste, 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.
25
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 com to harme.
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
30
To weet their cork-heil’d schoone;
Bot lang owre a’ the play wer play’d,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may thair ladies sit
Wi’ thair fans into their hand,
35
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,
40
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.
ANONYMOUS Edward, Edward
Quhy dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Quhy dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid?
And quhy sae sad gang yee, O?
5
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
10
Edward, Edward.
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither:
15
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward:
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
20
Sum other dule ye drie, O.
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is me, O!
And quhatten penance wul ye drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ye drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
30
Mither, mither:
lie set my feit in yonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
And quhat wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’,
Edward, Edward?
35
And quhat wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’,
That were sae fair to see, O?
Ile let them stand til they doun fa’,
Mither, mither:
Ile let them stand til they doun fa’,
40
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
And quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
Quhan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
45
The warldis room, let thame beg thrae life,
Mither, mither:
The warldis room, let thame beg thrae life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
And quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
50
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell me, O.
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,
Mither, mither:
55
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,
Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.
ANONYMOUS Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a’ day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.
5
Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
‘A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friends’ will.’
‘Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
10
A wife wull neir wed yee:’
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.
‘O rede, O rede, mither,’ he says,
‘A gude rede gie to mee;
15
O sail I take the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?’
‘The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
20
O it wull soon be gane.’
And he has till his brother gane:
‘Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sail I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let Fair Annet bee?’
25
‘The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast Fair-Annet bye.’
‘Her oxen may dye i the house, billie,
30
And her kye into the byre,
And I sail hae nothing to mysell
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.’
And he has till his sister gane:
‘Now, sister, rede ye mee;
35
O sail I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set Fair Annet free?’
‘I’se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
40
What is this we brought hame!’
‘No, I will tak my mither’s counsel,
And marrie me owt o hand;
And I will tak the nut-browne bride,
Fair Annet may leive the land.’
45
Up then rose Fair Annet’s father,
Twa hours or it wer day,
And he is gane into the bower
Wherein Fair Annet lay.
‘Rise up, rise up, Fair Annet,’ he says,
50
‘Put on your silken sheene;
Let us gae to St Marie’s kirke,
And see that rich weddeen.’
‘My maides, gae to my dressing-roome,
And dress to me my hair;
55
Whaireir yee laid a plait before,
See yee lay ten times mair.
‘My maids, gae to my dressing-room,
And dress to me my smock;
The one half is o the holland fine,
60
The other o needle-work.’
The horse Fair Annet rade upon,
He amblit like the wind;
Wi siller he was shod before,
Wi burning gowd behind.
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Four and twanty siller bells
Wer a’ tyed till his mane,
And yae tift o the norland wind,
They tinkled ane by ane.
Four and twanty gay gude knichts
70
Rade by Fair Annet’s side,
And four and twanty fair ladies,
As gin she had bin a bride.
And whan she came to Marie’s kirk,
She sat on Marie’s stean:
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The cleading that Fair Annet had on
It skinkled in their een.
And whan she cam into the kirk,
She shimmerd like the sun;
The belt that was about her
waist
80
Was a’ wi pearles bedone.
She sat her by the nut-browne bride,
And her een they wer sae clear,
Lord Thomas he clean forgat the bride,
Whan Fair Annet drew near.
85
He had a rose into his hand,
He gae it kisses three,
And reaching by the nut-browne bride,
Laid it on Fair Annet’s knee.
Up than spak the nut-brown bride,
90
She spak wi meikle spite:
‘And whair gat ye that rose-water,
That does mak yee sae white?’
‘O I did get the rose-water
Whair ye wull neir get nane,
95
For I did get that very rose-water
Into my mither’s wame.’
The bride she drew a long bodkin
Frae out her gay head-gear,
And strake Fair Annet unto the heart,
100
That word spak nevir mair.
Lord Thomas he saw Fair Annet wex pale,
And marvelit what more bee;
But whan he saw her dear heart’s blude,
A’ wood-wroth wexed hee.
105
He drew his dagger, that was sae sharp,
That was sae sharp and meet,
And drave it into the nut-browne bride,
That fell deid at his feit.
‘Now stay for me, dear Annet,’ he sed,
110
‘Now stay, my dear,’ he cry’d;
Then strake the dagger untill his heart,
And fell deid by her side.
Lord Thomas was buried without kirk-wa,
Fair Annet within the quiere,
115
And o the tane thair grew a birk,
The other a bonny briere.
And ay they grew, and ay they threw,
As they wad faine be neare;
And by this ye may ken right weil
120
They were twa luvers deare.
CHRISTOPHER SMART Hymn. The Nativity of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ
Where is this stupendous stranger,
Swains of Solyma, advise,
Lead me to my Master’s manger,
Shew me where my Saviour lies?
O Most Mighty! O MOST HOLY!
Far beyond the seraph’s thought,
Art thou then so mean and lowly
As unheeded prophets taught?
O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
If eternal is so young!
If so young and thus eternal,
Michael tune the shepherd’s reed,
Where the scenes are ever vernal,
And the loves be love indeed!
See the God blasphem’d and doubted
In the schools of Greece and Rome;
See the pow’rs of darkness routed,
Taken at their utmost gloom.
Nature’s decorations glisten
Far above their usual trim;
Birds on box and laurels listen,
As so near the cherubs hymn.
Boreas now no longer winters
On the desolated coast;
Oaks no more are riv’n in splinters
By the whirlwind and his host.
Spinks and ouzles sing sublimely,
‘We too have a Saviour born;’
Whiter blossoms burst untimely
On the blest Mosaic thorn.
God all-bounteous, all-creative,
Whom no ills from good dissuade,
Is incarnate, and a native
Of the very world he made.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH from The Vicar of Wakefield1766
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is – to die.
1769THOMAS GRAY On L[or]d H[olland’]s Seat near M[argat]e, K[en]t
Old and abandon’d by each venal friend
Here H[olland] took the pious resolution
To smuggle some few years and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution.
On this congenial spot he fix’d his choice,
Earl Godwin trembled for his neighbouring sand,
Here Seagulls scream and cormorants rejoice,
And Mariners tho’ shipwreckt dread to land,
Here reign the blustring north and blighting east,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing,
Yet nature cannot furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring;
Now mouldring fanes and battlements arise,
Arches and turrets nodding to their fall,
Unpeopled palaces delude his eyes,
And mimick desolation covers all.
Ah, said the sighing Peer, had Bute been true
Nor Shelburn’s, Rigby’s, Calcraft’s friendship vain,
Far other scenes than these had bless’d our view
And realis’d the ruins that we feign.
Purg’d by the sword and beautifyed by fire,
Then had we seen proud London’s hated walls,
Owls might have hooted in St. Peters Quire,
And foxes stunk and litter’d in St. Pauls.
1770OLIVER GOLDSMITH from The Deserted Village
Sweet was the sound when oft at evening’s close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;