"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?