6 'Drink, O drink, my merrie men all, Drink o the beer and wine, For gin Wedensday by twal o'clock We'll a' be in our lang hame.' 7 Out and spak a pretty little boy: 'I fear a deadlie storm; For I saw the new mune late yestreen, And the old ane in her arm, And readilie, maister,' said he, 'That's the sign of a deadly storm.' 8 Aye they sat, and aye they drank, They drank of the beer and wine, And gin Wedensday gin ten o'clock, Their hair was wat abune. 9 'Whare wuld I get a pretty little boy, That wants to win hose and shoon, Wuld up to the top of my mainmast go, See if he could spy land?' 10 O here am I, a pretty little boy, Wants to win hose and shoon; I'll up to the top of your mainmast go, Though I should neer come doun.' 11 'Come doun, come doun, my pretty little boy, I think thou tarries lang; For the jawe is coming in at my coat-neck, Going out at my richt hand.' 12 But there cum a shouir out o the Norewest, Of dreidfu hail and rain, It made Young Patrick and his men A' flat wi the sea faem. 13 O is na it a great pitye To see feather-beds on the main? But it is a greater pitye, I think, To see men doing the same. 14 There's a brig at the back o Sanct John's toun, It's fifty fadom deep, And there lies a' our brau Scots lords, Young Patrick's at their feet. 15 Young Patrick's lady sits at hame, She's sewing her silken seam; And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves, 'I fear he'll neer return.' 16 Young Patrick's lady sits at hame Rocking her oldest son; And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves, 'I'm feared he'll neer come hame.' F Motherwell's MS., p. 153, from the recitation of Mrs Thomson. 1 The king he sits on Dunfermline hill, Drinking baith beer and wine; O Says, Whare shall I get a good skipper, That will sail the salt sea fine? O 2 But out then speaks an Irish knight, Sat by the king's right knee: 'Skipper Patrick is the best skipper That ever my eyes did see.' 3 The king has written a lang letter, And sealed it wi his hand, And sent it to Skipper Patrick, As he walked alang the sand. 4 'O wha is this, or wha is that, That's tauld the king of me? For tho it had been the queen hersell, She might hae let it be. 5 'But busk you, O busk, my merry men all, Sae merrily busk and boune, For blaw the wind where eer it will, Our gude ship sails the morn.' 6 'O no, O no, our dear master, It will be a deidly storm; For yestreen I saw the new new mune, Wi the auld mune in her arm; It's a token, maister, or ye were born, It will be a deadly storm.'