Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 60

John Bunyan. 1628-1688

366. The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation

HE that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have G.o.d to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

367. Thomas the Rhymer

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was o' the gra.s.s-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett o' her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap, And louted low down on his knee 'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth could never be.'

'O no, O no, Thomas' she said, 'That name does not belang to me; I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee.

'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said; 'Harp and carp along wi' me; And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be.'

'Betide me weal; betide me woe, That weird shall never daunten me.'

Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree.

'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said, 'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'

She 's mounted on her milk-white steed, She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene'er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on, The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach'd a desert wide, And living land was left behind.

'Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide ye there a little s.p.a.ce, And I will show you ferlies three.

'O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?

That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires.

'And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven?

That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

'And see ye not yon bonny road That winds about the fernie brae?

That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae.

'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'

O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee; And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded thro' red blude to the knee; For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie.

Syne they came to a garden green, And she pu'd an apple frae a tree: 'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'

'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said; 'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!

I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I might be.

'I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'-- 'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said, 'For as I say, so must it be.'

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen.

ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel). leven] ?lawn. dought] could.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

368. Sir Patrick Spens

I. The Sailing

THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?'

O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.

II. The Return

'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!

Our gude ship sails the morn.'

'Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn.

'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in.'