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George MacDonald - The Yerl O` Waterydeck
Work rating: Low

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,
And it was "Hey for hame!"
But up an` cried the skipper til his crew,
"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."

Syne up an` spak the angry king:
"Haud on for Dumferline!"
Quo` the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be—
I`m king on this boat o` mine!"

He tuik the helm intil his han`,
He left the shore un`er the lee;
Syne croodit sail, an`, east an` south,
Stude awa richt oot to sea.

Quo` the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!
Here lies some ill-set plan!
`Bout ship!" Quo` the skipper, "Yer grace forgets
Ye are king but o` the lan`!"

Oot he heild to the open sea
Quhill the north wind flaughtered an` fell;
Syne the east had a bitter word to say
That waukent a watery hell.

He turnt her heid intil the north:
Quo` the nobles, "He s` droon, by the mass!"
Quo` the skipper, "Haud afif yer lady-ban`s
Or ye`ll never see the Bass."

The king creepit down the cabin-stair
To drink the gude French wine;
An` up cam his dochter, the princess fair,
An` luikit ower the brine.

She turnt her face to the drivin snaw,
To the snaw but and the weet;
It claucht her snood, an` awa like a dud
Her hair drave oot i` the sleet.

She turnt her face frae the drivin win`—
"Quhat`s that aheid?" quo` she.
The skipper he threw himsel frae the win`
An` he brayt the helm alee.

"Put to yer han`, my lady fair!
Haud up her heid!" quo` he;
"Gien she dinna face the win` a wee mair
It`s faurweel to you an` me!"

To the tiller the lady she laid her han`,
An` the ship brayt her cheek to the blast;
They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,
An` they luikit at ither aghast.

Quo` the skipper, "Ye are a lady fair,
An` a princess gran` to see,
But war ye a beggar, a man wud sail
To the hell i` yer company!"

She liftit a pale an` a queenly face,
Her een flashed, an` syne they swam:
"An` what for no to the hevin?" she says,
An` she turnt awa frae him.

Bot she tuik na her han` frae the gude ship`s helm
Till the day begouth to daw;
An` the skipper he spak, but what was said
It was said atween them twa.

An` syne the gude ship she lay to,
Wi` Scotlan` hyne un`er the lee;
An` the king cam up the cabin-stair
Wi` wan face an` bluidshot ee.

Laigh loutit the skipper upo` the deck;
"Stan` up, stan` up," quo` the king;
"Ye`re an honest loun—an` beg me a boon
Quhan ye gie me back this ring."

Lowne blew the win`; the stars cam oot;
The ship turnt frae the north;
An` or ever the sun was up an` aboot
They war intil the firth o` Forth.

Quhan the gude ship lay at the pier-heid,
And the king stude steady o` the lan`,—
"Doon wi` ye, skipper—doon!" he said,
"Hoo daur ye afore me stan`!"

The skipper he loutit on his knee;
The king his blade he drew:
Quo` the king, "Noo mynt ye to centre me!
I`m aboord my vessel noo!

"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord
I wud hae thrawn yer neck!
Bot—ye wha loutit Skipper o` Doon,
Rise up Yerl o` Waterydeck."

The skipper he rasena: "Yer Grace is great,
Yer 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 an` 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?
A woman wi` quhilk a man micht sail
Prood intil the Port o` Death?
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