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'rr skippers of bonny Lothain, As they sat at the wine, There fell a reesin them amang, An it was in unhappy time. Some o them reesd their hawks, An some o them their hounds, An some o them their ladies gay, Trod neatly on the ground; Young Allan he reesd his comely cog, That lay upon the strand. 'I hae as good a ship this day As ever sailed our seas, Except it be the Burges Black, But an the Small Cordvine, The Comely Cog of Dornisdale; We's lay that three bye in time.' Out spak there a little boy, Just at Young Allan's knee: 'Ye lie, ye lie, Young Allan, Sae loud's I hear ye lie. For my master has a little boat Will sail thrice as well as thine; For she'll gang in at your foremast, An gae out your fore-lee, An nine times in a winter night She'll tak the wind frae thee.' 'O wht will ye wad, ye Young Allan? Or what will ye wad wi me?' 'I'll wad my head against your land Till I get more monnie.' They had na saild a league, A league but barely three, But through an thro the bonny ship They saw the green wall sea. They had na saild a league, A league but barely five, But through an thro their bonny ship They saw the green well wave. He gaed up to the topmast, To see what he coud see, And there he saw the Burgess Black, But an the Small Cordvine, The Comely Cog of Dornisdale; The three was rent in nine. Young Allan grat and wrang his hands, An he kent na what to dee: 'The win is loud, and the waves are proud, An we'll a' sink in the sea. 'But gin I coud get a bonny boy Wad tak my helm in han, That would steer my bonny ship, An bring her safe to land, 'He shoud get the twa part o my goud, The third o my land, An gin we win safe to shore He shoud get my dochter Ann.' 'O here am I, a bonny boy That will tak your helm in han, An will steer your bonny ship, An bring her safe to lan. 'Ye tak four-an-twenty feather-beds An lay the bonny ship round, An as much of the good canvas As mak her hale an soun.' They took four-and-twenty feather-beds An laid the bonny ship roun, An as much o the good canvas As made her hale an soun. 'Spring up, spring up, my bonny ship, An goud shall be your hire!' Whan the bonny ship heard o that, That goud shoud be her hire, She sprang as fast frae the sat water As sparks do frae the fire. 'Spring up, spring up, my bonny ship, And goud sall be your fee!' Whan the bonny ship heard o that, That goud shoud be her fee, She sprang as fast frae the sat water As the leaf does frae the tree. The sailors stan on the shore-side, Wi their auld baucheld sheen: 'Thanks to God an our guid master That ever we came safe to land!' 'Whar is the bonny boy That took my helm in han, That steerd my bonny ship, An brought her safe to lan? 'He's get the twa part o my goud, The third part o my lan, An, since we're come safe to shore, He's get my dochter Ann.' 'O here am I, the bonny boy That took your helm in han, That steered your bonny ship, An brought her safe to lan. 'I winna hae the twa part o your goud, Nor the third part o your lan, But, since we hae win safe to shore, I'll wed your dochter Ann.' Forty ships went to the sea, Forty ships and five, An there never came ane o a' back, But Young Allan, alive. = = were four-and-twenty sailors bold Sat drinking at the wine; There fell a rousing them among, In an unseally time. Some there reasd their hawk, their hawk, And some there reasd their hound, But Young Allan reasd his comely cog, As she floats on the feam. 'There's not a ship amang you a' Will sail alang wi me, But the comely cog o Heckland Hawk, And Flower o Germanie, And the Black Snake o Leve London; They are all gane frae me.' The wager was a gude wager, Of fifty tuns of wine, And as much o the gude black silk As cleathd their lemans fine. At midnight dark the wind up stark, The seas began to rout; Young Allan and his bonny new ship Gaed three times witherlins about. 'O faer will I get a bonny boy Will take my helm in hand Ere I gang up to the tapmast-head To look for some dry land?' 'O waken, waken your drunken men, As they lie drunk wi wine; For when ye came thro Edinburgh town Ye bought them shoes o ben. 'There was no shoes made for my feet, Nor gluve made for my hand; But nevertheless, my dear master, I'll take your helm in hand Till ye gae to the topmast head And look for some dry land.' 'I cannot see no day, no day, Nor no meathe can I ken; But many a bonny feather-bed Lies floating on the faem.' 'Come down, come down, my dear master, You see not what I see; Through and through your bonny new ship Comes in the green haw sea.' 'Take fifty ells o the canvas broad And wrap it in a' roun, And as much good pich an tar Make her go hale an soun. 'Sail on, sail on, my bonny ship, And haste ye to dry lan, And every nail that is in you Shall be a gay gold pin.