The king his blade he drew: Quo the king, "Noo mynt ye to contre me?-- I'm aboord _my_ vessel noo! "Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord I wad hae thrawn yer neck! Bot--ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon, Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck." The skipper he rasena: "Yer grace is great; Yèr wull it can heize or ding; Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl-- Wi' anither mak me a king." "I canna mak ye a king," quo' he, "The Lord alane can do that; I snowk leise-majesty, my man! Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?" Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king, Jalousin' aneth his croon; Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer grace's ring-- An' yer dochter is my boon." The black blude shot intil the king's face-- He wasna bonny to see: "The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!-- Gar hang him heigh on yon tree." Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship; Cleikit up a bytin' blade; An' hackit at the cable that held her to the pier, An' thoucht it maist ower weel made. The king he blew shill in a siller whustle; An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier, Cam twenty men on twenty horses, Clankin' wi' spur and spear. At the king's fute fell his dochter fair: "His life ye wadna spill!" "Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?" "I daur, wi' a richt gude will!" "Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn; But, my lady, here stan's the king; Luikna him i' the angry face, A monarch's anither thing." "I lout to my father for his grace, Low on my bendit knee; But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face, For the skipper is king o' me." She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck; The cable splashed i' the Forth, Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread And flew east, an' syne flew north. Now was not this a king's dochter-- A lady that feared no skaith? An' a woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail Prood intil the port o' Death? ----G. Macdonald. OLD SIR WALTER (_A Story of 1734._) |Stout Sir Walter was old but hearty: A velvet cap on his long grey hair, A full white rose at his gold-laced button: Many were laughing, but none looked gayer. Such a beast was his jet black hunter, Silver-spotted with foam and froth, Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded, Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath! Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled Over the stone wall four feet two; See saw over the old park railing, Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew. A long black face the sour Whig huntsman Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover. Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb? Why when he flung up his hat and shouted, "God save King George!" they bawling cried, As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment, Rode up grim to Sir Walters side. "In King Georges name, arrest him, lieges!