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 Märchen 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.

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 ship’s side
   But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
   To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!
But lang or a the play was play’d
   They wat their hats aboon,

And mony was the feather-bed
   That fluttered on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord’s son
   That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
   The maidens tore their hair,
A’ for the sake of their true loves,
   For them they’ll see na mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
   Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
   Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
   Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!
   For them they’ll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdeen,
   ’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
   Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE

(Child, vol. vi.)

It fell about the Lammas tide,
   When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
   Into England, to drive a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
   With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,
   And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn’d the dales of Tyne,
   And part of Bambrough shire:
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
   He left them all on fire.

And he march’d up to Newcastle,
   And rode it round about:
“O wha’s the