Sir Patrick Spens

The king sits in Dunfermline townDrinking the blude-red wine;‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o’ mine?’

O up and spak an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee:‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sail’d the sea.’

Our king has written a braid letter,And seal’d it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.

‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o’er the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis thou must bring her hame.’

The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud, loud laugh’d he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e’e.

‘O wha is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time o’ year,To sail upon the sea?

‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis we must fetch her hame.’

They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi’ a’ the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.

‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’!Our gude ship sails the morn.’--‘Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.

‘I saw the new moon late yestreenWi’ the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’

They hadna sail’d a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,It was sic a deadly storm:And the waves cam owre the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.

‘O where will I get a gude sailorTo tak’ my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall topmastTo see if I can spy land?’--

‘O here am I, a sailor gude,To tak’ the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall topmast,But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’

He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bolt flew out of our goodly ship,And the saut sea it came in.

‘Go fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And let nae the sea come in.’

They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heel’d shoon;But lang or a’ the play was play’dThey wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bedThat flatter’d on the faem;And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ their gowd kames in their hair,A-waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they’ll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep;And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!