THOMAS DEKKER CONTENT ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears Honest labour bears a lovely face; TROLL THE BOWL COLD's the wind, and wet's the rain, Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, ANONYMOUS SIR PATRICK SPENS THE king sits in Dunfermline toun, Then up and spake an eldern knight The king has written a braid letter, 'To Noroway, to Noroway, The first line that Sir Patrick read, The neist line that Sir Patrick read, 'O wha is this has done this deed, To send us out at this time o' the year, 'Be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, When that the lords o' Noroway 'Ye Scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, Sae loud's I hear ye lee! 'For I brought as much o' the white monie As gane my men and me, And a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, Out owre the sea with me. 'Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'O say na sae, my master dear, I fear a deadlie 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, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, It was sic a deadlie storm; And the waves cam' owre the broken ship, 'O whare will I get a gude sailor 'O here am I, a sailor gude, He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, And the saut sea it cam' in. 'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, And wap them into our gude ship's side, They fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in. O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons And mony was the feather-bed O lang, lang may the ladies sit, And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Half owre, half owre to Aberdour And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens THE BEGGAR'S DAUGHTER OF BEDNALL-GREEN PART I It was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, And though she was of favour most faire, |