The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, And held by the pummil fast: At length the tanner came tumbling downe; His necke he had well-nye brast. Take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, With mee he shall not byde. "My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. Yet if againe thou faine woldst change, As change full well may wee, By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, I will have some boote of thee." What boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, Nowe tell me in this stounde. "Noe pence nor halfpence, Sir, by my faye, But I will have twentye pound." "Here's twentye groates out of my purse; And twentye I have of thine: And I have one more, which we will spend Together at the wine." The king set a bugle home to his mouthe, And blewe both loude and shrille: And soone came lords, and soone came knights, Fast ryding over the hille. Nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, That ever I sawe this daye! Thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes Will beare my cowe-hide away. They are no thieves, the king replyde, I sweare, soe mote I thee: But they are the lords of the north countrèy, Here come to hunt with mee. And soone before our king they came, And knelt downe on the grounde: Then might the tanner have beene awaye, He had lever than twentye pounde. A coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, A coller he loud gan crye: Then woulde he lever than twentye pound, He had not beene so nighe. A coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, I trowe it will breed sorrowe: After a coller cometh a halter, I trow I shall be hang'd to-morrowe. Be not afraid, tanner, said our king; I tell thee, so mought I thee, Lo here I make thee the best esquire That is in the North countrie. For Plumpton-parke I will give thee, With tenements faire beside: 'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, To maintaine thy good cowe-hide. Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, For the favour thou hast me showne; If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth, Neates leather shall clout thy shoen. [Illustration] SIR PATRICK SPENS The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: O quhar will I get guid sailòr, To sail this schip of mine. Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr, That sails upon the se. The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi' his hand; And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he: The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee. O quha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me; To send me out this time o' the zeir, To sail upon the se.