WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE.

Oh! blythely shines the bonnie sun
Upon the Isle of May,

And blythely comes the morning tide
Into St. Andrew's Bay,

Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair;
And up my bra' bairns three,
There's goud in yonder bonnie boat

That sails sae weel the sea!

When haddocks leave the Frith o' Forth,

An' mussels leave the shore,

When oysters climb up Berwick Law,
We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I've seen the waves as blue as air,
I've seen them green as grass;
But I never feared their heaving yet
From Grangemouth to the Bass.
I've seen the sea as black as pitch,
I've seen it white as snow;
But I never feared its foaming yet,
Though the winds blew high or low.
When squalls capsize our wooden walls.
When the French ride at the Nore,
When Leith meets Aberdour half way,
We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I never liked the landsman's life,
The earth is aye the same;
Gi'e me the ocean for my dower,

My vessel for my hame.

Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs,

The farm that pays no fee;

Gi'e me the bonny fish, that glance

So gladly through the sea.

When sails hang flapping on the masts,
While through the wave we snore;
When in a calm we're tempest-tost,

We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith
The breezes softly blaw;

The gudeman has the lines on board :-
Awa', my bairns, awa'.

An' ye be back by gloamin' grey,

An' bright the fire will low,

An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell

How weel the boat ye row.

When life's last sun gaes feebly down,

An' Death comes to our door,
When a' the world's a dream to us,

We'll go to sea no more,

No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs,
The farm that pays no fee.

What two lines are these! The whole

song seems set to the music of the winds and waves, so free and unshackled is the rhythm, and so hearty and seamanlike the sentiment. To speak all praise in one word, it might have been written by Joanna Baillie.

Although not strictly a Fishing Song, yet as one purporting to be sung by a mariner's wife, I cannot resist the temptation of adding the charming ballad that concludes this paper. Mr. Robert Chambers attributes the authorship to William Julius Mickle, the translator of the "Lusiad," and the writer of "Cumnor Hall," to which, and the impression made upon

Sir Walter Scott, in early life, by the first stanza,* the world is probably indebted for Kenilworth. Mr. Chambers says that of this ballad, an imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among his manuscripts after his death; and his widow, being applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words.

*

And are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Gie me my cloak,-I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie me down my biggonet,

My bishop-satin gown,

And rin and tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearlin blue ;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

"The dews of summer night did fall,

The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby."

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat.

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bouk,
They've fed this month and mair ;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about
That Colin weel may fare.

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw ;-

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'!

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath's like caller air;

His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,—

In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

The cauld blasts o' the winter's wind,
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,

Till death we'll never part.

But what puts parting i' my heid?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our own,
The neist we never saw.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Mr. Chambers may well call this song fairest flower in Mickle's poetical chaplet."

"the

Many

a laureled bard might have proudly owned such a ballad.

P.S. I was reading this song to a friend, as well as a tongue not Scottish would let me, while an intelligent young person, below the rank that is called a lady, sate at work in the room. She smiled as I concluded, and said, half to herself, "Singing that song got my sister a husband !"

"Is she so fine a singer ?" inquired my friend.

“No, Ma'am, not a fine singer at all; only somehow everybody likes to hear her, because she seems to feel the words she sings, and so makes other people feel them. But it was her choosing that song that won William's love. He said that a woman who put