"I canna mak ye a king," said he,

For the Lord alone can do that; And besides ye took it intil yer ain han',

And crooned yersel' sae pat!

"But wi' what ye will I redeem my ring;

For ance I am at your beck. And first, as ye loutit Skipper o' Doon,

Rise up Yerl o' Quarterdeck.”

The skipper he rose and looked at the king

In his een for all his croon; Said the skipper, "Here is yer grace's ring,

And yer daughter is my boon."

The reid blude sprang into the king's face,

A wrathful man to see: "The rascal loon abuses our grace; Gae hang him upon yon tree."

But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship,

And he drew his biting blade; And he struck the chain that held her fast,

But the iron was ower weel made.

And the king he blew a whistle loud; And tramp, tramp, down the

pier,

Cam' twenty riders on twenty steeds, Clankin' wi' spur and spear.

"He saved your life!" cried the lady fair;

"His life ye daurna spill!" "Will ye come atween me and my hate?"

Quo the lady, "And that I will!"

And on cam the knights wi' spur and spear,

For they heard the iron ring. "Gin ye care na for yer father's grace,

Mind ye that I am the king."

"I kneel to my father for his grace, Right lowly on my knee;

But I stand and look the king in the face,

For the skipper is king o' me."

"When she took the ground, She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that,

The captain reeled on deck with two small things,

One in each arm - his little lad and lass.

Their hair was long and blew before his face,

Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell,

But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls!

The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed,

Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead,

The dear breath beaten out of them: not one

Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch

The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the captain lay

And clung-the only man alive. They prayed

'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!'

Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck:

And

But

he threw one, a pretty two years' child,

the gale dashed him on the slippery verge,

And down he went. They say they

heard him cry.

"Gie corn to my horse, mother;
And meat to my young man:
And I'll awa' to Meggie's bower,
I'll win ere she lie down."

"O bide this night wi' me, Willie,
O bide this night wi' me;
The best an' cock o' a' the reest,
At your supper shall be."

"A' your cocks, and a' your reests, I value not a prin;

For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, 7'll win ere she lie down.”

"Stay this night wi' me, Willie,
O stay this night wi' me;
The best an' sheep in a' the flock
At your supper shall be."

"A' your sheep, and a' your flocks, I value not a prin;

For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower,
I'll win ere she lie down."

"O an' ye gang to Meggie's bower
Sae sair against my will,
The deepest pot in Clyde's water,
My malison ye's feel."

"The guid steed that I ride pon
Cost me thrice thretty pound;
Ard I'll put trust in his swift feet,
To hae me safe to land."

As he rade ower yon high, high hill,
And down yon dowie den,
The noise that was in Clyde's water
Wou'd fear'd five hunder men.

"Ye're roaring loud, Clyde water,
Your waves seem ower strang;
Make me your wreck as I come back,
But spare me as I gang."

Then he is on to Meggie's bower,
And tirlèd at the pin;

"O sleep ye, wake ye, Meggie," he said,

"Ye'll open, lat me come in.”

"O wha is this at my bower door, That calls me by my name?” "It is your first love, sweet Willie, This night newly come hame."

"I hae few lovers thereout, thereout,

As few hae I therein;

The best an' love that ever I had,
Was here just late yestreen."

"The warstan stable in a' your stables,

For my puir steed to stand;
The

warstan bower in a' your
bowers,

For me to lie therein:

My boots are fu' o' Clyde's water,
I'm shivering at the chin."

"My barns are fu' o' corn, Willie,
My stables are fu' o' hay;
My bowers are fu' o' gentlemen; -
They'll nae remove till day."

"O fare-ye-well, my fause Meggie, O farewell, and adieu;

I've gotten my mither's malison,
This night coming to you."

As he rode ower yon high, high hill,

And down yon dowie den;
The rushing that was in Clyde's

water

Took Willie's cane fra him.

He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, To catch his cane again;

The rushing that was in Clyde's

water

Took Willie's hat frae him.

He lean'd him ower his saddle bow,
To catch his hat thro' force;
The rushing that was in Clyde's

water

Took Willie frae his horse.

His brither stood upo' the bank, Says, "Fye, man, will ye drown? Ye'll turn ye to your high horse head,

And learn how to sowm."

"How can I turn to my horse head,
And learn how to sowm?
I've gotten my mither's malison,
It's here that I maun drown!"

The very hour this young man sank
Into the pot sae deep,

Up it waken'd his love, Meggie,
Out o' her drowsy sleep.

"Come here, come here, my mither dear,

And read this dreary dream;

I dream'd my love was at our gates, And nane wad let him in."

"Lye still, lye still now, my Meggie,

Lye still and tak your rest;

Sin' your true love was at your gates, It's but twa quarters past."

Nimbly, nimbly raise she up,
And nimbly pat she on;

And the higher that the lady cried,
The louder blew the win'.

The first an' step that she stepp'd in, She stepped to the queet; "Ohon, alas!" said that lady, "This water's wondrous deep."

The next an' step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee;

Says she, "I cou'd wade farther in, If I my love cou'd see."

The next an' step that she wade in,
She wadit to the chin;

The deepest pot in Clyde's water,
She got sweet Willie in.

"You've had a cruel mither, Willie, And I have had anither;

But we shall sleep in Clyde's water, Like sister an' like brither."

Past any help she lies,

And never a bale has come to shore Of all thy merchandise."

"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,"

Winstanley said, and sighed, "For velvet coif, or costly coat,

They fathoms deep may bide.

"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind,

O mariners, bold and true, Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, A-thinking of yours and you.

"Many long days Winstanley's breast Shall feel a weight within,

For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared,

And trading count but sin.