"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all, "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, When the sky grew dark and the wind grew loud, 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 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 Oh! loth, loth were the Scottish lairds But long e'er all the play was played And many was the featherbed, Oh! long, long may the ladies sit, And long, long may the maidens sit Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour, 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: 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?— 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. We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? Utawa's tide! this trembling moon MOORE. |