by Homer
Up and spak an eldern knicht, 5
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, 10
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, 15
The teir blinded his ee.
“O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill died don to me,
To send me out this time o’ the yeir,
To sail upon the se! 20
“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.
“Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, 25
Wi the auld moone in her 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; 30
Bot lang owre a’ the play wer play’d,
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 35
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. 40
Haf owre, half owre to Aberdour,
It’s fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Thomas Rymer and the Queen of Elfland
Traditional Ballads
TRUE THOMAS lay oer yond grassy bank,
And he beheld a ladie gay,
A ladie that was brisk and bold,
Come riding oer the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk, 5
Her mantel of the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat,
And bowed him low down till his knee: 10
“All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I never did see.”
“O no, O no, True Thomas,” she says,
“That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland, 15
And I’m come here for to visit thee.
“But ye maun go wi me now, Thomas,
True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,
For ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro weel or wae as may chance to be.” 20
She turned about her milk-white steed,
And took True Thomas up behind,
And aye wheneer her bridle rang,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
For forty days and forty nights 25
He wade thro red blude to the knee,
And he saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.
O they rade on, and further on,
Until they came to a garden green: 30
“Light down, light down, ye ladie free,
Some of that fruit let me pull to thee.”
“O no, O no, True Thomas,” she says,
“That fruit maun not be touched by thee,
For a’ the plagues that are in hell 35
Light on the fruit of this countrie.
“But I have a loaf here in my lap,
Likewise a bottle of claret wine,
And now ere we go farther on,
We ‘ll rest a while, and ye may dine.” 40
When he had eaten and drunk his fill,
“Lay down your head upon my knee,”
The lady sayd, “ere we climb yon hill,
And I will show you fairlies three.
“O see not ye yon narrow road, 45
So thick beset wi thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.
“And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across yon lillie leven ? 50
That is the path of wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.
“And see not ye that bonnie road,
Which winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland, 55
Whe[re] you and I this night maun gae.
“But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever you may hear or see,
For gin ae word you should chance to speak,
You will neer get back to your ain countrie.” 60
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were past and gone
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Sweet William’s Ghost
Traditional Ballads
WHAN bells war rung, an mass was sung,
A wat a’ man to bed were gone,
Clark Sanders came to Margret’s window,
With mony a sad sigh and groan.
“Are ye sleeping, Margret,” he says, 5
“Or are ye waking, presentlie?
Give me my faith and trouthe again,
A wat, trew-love, I gied to thee.”
“Your faith and trouth ye’s never get,
Nor our trew love shall never twain, 10
Till ye come with me in my bower,
And kiss me both cheek and chin.”
“My mouth it is full cold, Margret,
It has the smell now of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth, 15
Thy life-days will not be long.
“Cocks are crowing a merry mid-larf,
I wat the wild fule boded day;
Gie me my faith and trouthe again,
And let me fare me on my way.” 20
“Thy faith and trouth thou shall na get,
Nor our trew love shall never twin,
Till ye tell me what comes of women
A wat that dy’s in strong travelling.”
“Their beds are made in the heavens high, 25
Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Well set about wi gilly-flowers,
A wat sweet company for to see.
“O cocks are crowing a merry midd-larf,
A wat the wilde foule boded day; 30
The salms of Heaven will be sung,
And ere now I’le be misst away.”
Up she has tain a bright long wand,
And she has straked her trouth thereon;
She has given (it) him out at the shot-window, 35
Wi many a sad sigh and heavy groan.
“I thank you, Margret, I thank you, Margret,
And I thank you hartilie;
Gine ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Margret, I’ll come again for thee.” 40
It’s hose an shoon and gound alane
She clame the wall and followed him,
Until she came to a green forest,
On this she lost the sight of him.
“Is there any room at your head, Sanders? 45
Is there any room at your feet?
Or any room at your twa sides?
Whare fain, fain woud I sleep.”
“Their is na room at my head, Margret,
Their is na room at my feet; 50
There is room at my twa sides,
For ladys for
to sleep.
“Cold meal is my covering owre,
But an my winding sheet;
My bed it is full low, I say, 55
Down among the hongerey worms I sleep.
“Cold meal is my covering owre,
But an my winding sheet;
The dew it falls na sooner down
Then ay it is full weet.” 60
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
The Wife of Usher’s Well
Traditional Ballads
THERE lived a wife at Usher’s Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them oer the sea.
They hadna been a week from her, 5
A week but barely ane,
Whan word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three, 10
Whan word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she’d never see.
“I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me, 15
In earthly flesh and blood.”
It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are lang and mirk.
The carlin wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were o the birk. 20
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise,
That birk grew fair eneugh.
“Blow up the fire, my maidens, 25
Bring water from the well;
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.”
And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and wide, 30
And she’s taen her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said, 35
“’Tis time we were away.”
The cock he hadna crawd but once,
And clappd his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa.” 40
“The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.
“Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, 45
Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
She’ll go mad ere it be day.”
“Faer ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre! 50
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!”
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Hugh of Lincoln
Traditional Ballads
FOUR and twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd oer them a’.
He kicked the ba with his right foot, 5
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell,
And walkd it round about; 10
And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,
At the window looking out.
“Throw down the ba, ye Jew’s daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!”
“Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter, 15
“Till up to me come ye.”
“How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye’ll do me.” 20
She’s gane till her father’s garden,
And pu’d an apple red and green;
’Twas a’ to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She’s led him in through ae dark door, 25
And sae has she thro nine;
She’s laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin, 30
And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;
There was nae mair within.
She’s rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well, 35
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a’ the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane. 40
She’s taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she’s gane out to seek her son,
And wanderd oer the land.
She’s doen her to the Jew’s castell, 45
Where a’ were fast asleep:
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
She’s doen her to the Jew’s garden,
Thought he had been gathering fruit: 50
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
She heard Our Lady’s deep draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep:
“Whareer ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh, 55
I pray you to me speak.”
“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.” 60
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Made him a winding sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a’ the bells o merry Lincoln 65
Without men’s hands were rung,
And a’ the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without man’s tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam’s days begun. 70
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
List of Poets in Alphabetical Order
Young Bicham
Traditional Ballads
IN London city was Bicham born,
He longd strange countries for to see,
But he was taen by a savage Moor,
Who handld him right cruely.
For thro his shoulder he put a bore, 5
An thro the bore has pitten a tree,
An he’s gard him draw the carts o wine,
Where horse and oxen had wont to be.
He’s casten [him] in a dungeon deep,
Where he coud neither hear nor see; 10
He’s shut him up in a prison strong,
And he’s handld him right cruely.
O this Moor he had but ae daughter,
I wot her name was Shusy Pye;
She’s doen her to the prison-house, 15
And she’s calld Young Bicham one word by.
“O hae ye ony lands or rents,
Or citys in your ain country,
Coud free you out of prison strong,
An coud mantain a lady free?” 20
“O London city is my own,
An other citys twa or three
Coud loose me out o prison strong,
An coud mantain a lady free.”
O she has bribed her father’s men 25
Wi meikle goud and white money,
She’s gotten the key o the prison doors,
An she has set Young Bicham free.
She’s gi’n him a loaf o good white bread,
But an a flask o Spanish wine, 30
And she bad him mind on the ladie’s love
That sae kindly freed him out o pine.
“Go set your foot on good ship-board,
An haste you back to your ain country,
An before that seven years has an end, 35
Come back again, love, and marry me.”
It was lang or seven years had an end
She longd fu sair her love to see;
She’s set her foot on good ship-board,
An turnd her back on her ain country. 40
She’s saild up, so has she doun,
Till she came to the other side;
She’s landed at Young Bicham’s gates,
An I hop this day she sal be his bride.
“Is this Young Bicham’s gates?” says she, 45
“Or is that noble prince within?”
“He’s up the stairs wi his bonny bride,
An monny a lord and lady wi him.”
“O has he taen a bonny bride,
An has he clean forgotten me!” 50
An sighing said that gay lady,
“I wish I were in my ain country!”
But she’s pitten her han in her pocket,
An gin the porter guineas three;
Says, “Take ye that, ye proud porter, 55
An bid the bridegroom speak to me.”
O whan the porter came up the stair,
He’s fa’n low down upon his knee:
“Won up, won up, ye proud porter,
An what makes a’ this courtesy?” 60