Clouds--ye eternal wanderers in hunting grounds of air,
High o'er the verdant Steppes, wide through the blue of heaven--
Coursing fraternal,--say, must ye exiled as I
From the beloved North to the far South be driven? ...
Faithful before thee, Mother of God, now kneeling,
Image miraculous and merciful--of thee
Not for my soul's health nor battles waged, beseeching,
Nor yet with thanks or penitence o'erwhelming me! ...
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.