"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,
Our gude ship sails the morn."
"Alas! alas! my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon late yestreen With the old moon in her arm; And if ye go to sea, master,

I fear ye'll come to harm."

They had not gone a league, a league,
A league but barely three-

When the sky grew dark and the wind grew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

They had not come a league, a league,

A league but barely seven,

When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side

And the salt sea it came in.

"Go fetch a web of the silken cloth

Another of the twine,

And wap them into the good ship's side
And let not the sea come in."

They fetcht a web of the silken cloth

Another of the twine,

And they wapped them into the good ship's side, But still the sea came in.

The anchors brake, and the topmasts lap, 'Twas such a deadly storm,

And the waves came over the broken ship Till all her sides were torn.

"Oh where will I get a sailor good

To take this helm in hand, While I go up to the tall topmast To try if I can't see land?"

"Oh! here am I, a sailor good
Will take your helm in hand
While you go up to the tall topmast,
But I fear ye'll ne'er see land."

Oh! loth, loth were the Scottish lairds
To wet their silken shoon;

But long e'er all the play was played
Their hats they swam aboon.

And many was the featherbed,
That fluttered on the foam,
And many was the gude laird's son,
That never more saw home!

Oh! long, long may the ladies sit,
With their fans into their hand,
Waiting to see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And long, long may the maidens sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
Awaiting for their own dear loves,
For them they'll see no more!

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour,
Is fifty fathoms deep;

And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,

With the Scots lairds at his feet.

OLD BALLAD.

LXIII

SEA DIRGE.

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange;
Sea-nymphs hourly sing his knell;
Hark! now I hear them,-

Ding, dong, bell.

SHAKESPEARE.

LXIV

THE SANDS OF DEE.

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the Sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild, and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the landAnd never home came she.

Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?—
A tress of golden hair

Of drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea.

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee!

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the Sands o' Dee.

KINGSLEY.

LXV

CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim

We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

MOORE.