A Collection of Ballads | Page 4

Motherwell found an example in the state of Cantefable,
alternate prose and verse, like Aucassin and Nicolette. Thus the
cockney rhyme descends from the twelfth century.
Such are a few of the curiosities of the ballad. The examples selected
are chiefly chosen for their romantic charm, and for the spirit of the
Border raids which they record. A few notes are added in an appendix.
The text is chosen from among the many variants in Child's learned but
still unfinished collection, and an effort has been made to choose the
copies which contain most poetry with most signs of uncontaminated
originality. In a few cases Sir Walter Scott's versions, though
confessedly "made up," are
preferred. Perhaps the editor may be
allowed to say that he does not merely plough with Professor Child's
heifer, but has made a study of ballads from his boyhood.
This fact may exempt him, even in the eyes of too patriotic American
critics, from "the common blame of a plagiary." Indeed, as Professor
Child has not yet published his general theory of the Ballad, the editor
does not know whether he agrees with the ideas here set forth.
So far the Editor had written, when news came of Professor Child's
regretted death. He had lived to finish, it is said, the vast collection of
all known traditional Scottish and English Ballads, with all accessible
variants, a work of great labour and research, and a distinguished
honour to American scholarship. We are not told, however, that he had
written a general study of the topic, with his conclusions as to the
evolution and diffusion of the Ballads: as to the influences which
directed the selection of certain themes of Marchen for poetic treatment,
and the processes by which identical ballads were distributed

throughout Europe. No one, it is to be feared, is left, in Europe at least,
whose knowledge of the subject is so wide and scientific as that of
Professor Child. It is to be hoped that some pupil of his may complete
the task in his sense, if, indeed, he has left it
unfinished.
Ballad: Sir Patrick Spens
(Border Minstrelsy.)
The king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine o:

"O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship of mine o?"
O up and spake an eldern-knight,
Sat at the king's right knee:
"Sir
Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever saild the sea."
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seald it with his hand,
And
sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway oer the faem;
The king's
daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame."
The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud laughed he;
The
neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o me,
To send
us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?"
"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the
faem;
The king's daughter of 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.
They hadna been a week, a week
In Noroway but twae,
When that
the lords o Noroway
Began aloud to say:

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,
And a' our queenis fee."

"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu' loud I hear ye lie!
"For I brought as much white monie
As gane my men and me,
And
I brought a half-fou' o' gude red goud,
Out o'er the sea wi' me.
"Make ready, make ready, my merry-men a'!
Our gude ship sails the
morn."
"Now ever alake, 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 top-masts lap,
It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam o'er the broken ship,
Till a' her sides were torn.
"O where will I get a gude sailor,
To take my helm in hand,
Till I
get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land?"
"O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go
up to the tall top-mast
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout
flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,
And
wap them into our ship's side,
And let na the sea come in."
They fetchd a web o the silken claith,
Another o the twine,
And
they wapped them roun that gude