"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: King Edward IV tailpiece] SIR PATRICK SPENS [Illustration: Sir Patrick Spens headpiece] 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. Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne, O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. Late late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme; And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will com to harme. O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. O lang, lang, may thair ladies sit Wi' thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens Cum sailing to the land.