Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
VII. SIR PATRICK SPENCE,
A Scottish Ballad
—is given from two MS copies transmitted from Scotland. In what age the hero of this ballad lived, or when this fatal expedition happened that proved so destructive to the Scots nobles, I have not been able to discover; yet am of opinion that their catastrophe is not altogether without foundation in history, though it has escaped my own researches. In the infancy of navigation, such as used the northern seas, were very liable to shipwreck in the wintry months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of James the III, (a law which was frequently repeated afterwards) “That there be na schip frauched out of the realm with any staple gudes, fra the feast of Simons day and Jude, unto the feast of the purification our Lady called Candelmess.”
Jam. III. Parlt. 2. Ch. 15.In some modern copies, instead of Patrick Spence hath been substituted the name of Sir Andrew Wood, a famous Scottish admiral who flourished in the time of our Edw. IV. but whose story hath nothing in common with this of the ballad. As Wood was the most noted warrior of Scotland, it is probable that, like the Theban Hercules, he hath engrossed the renown of other heroes.
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
To sail this schip of mine?
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr,
That sails upon the se.
And signd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o'the zeir,
To sail upon the se?
Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir, my deir mastèr,
That we will com to harme.
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||