Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
Sir Patrick SpensAnonymous
T
Drinking the blude-red wine:
“O where will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship of mine?”
Sat at the king’s right knee:
“Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.”
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis thou maun bring her hame!”
Sae loud, loud laughed he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blindit his e’e.
And tauld the king o’ me,
To send us out at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis we must fetch her hame.”
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.
In Noroway, but twae,
When that the lords o’ Noroway
Began aloud to say:
And a’ our queené’s fee.”
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!
As gane my men and me,
And I hae brought a half-fou o’ gude red gowd
Out owre the sea wi’ me.
Our gude ship sails the morn.”
“Now, ever alake! my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm!
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.”
A league, but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.
It was sic a deadly storm;
And the waves came o’er the broken ship
Till a’ her sides were torn.
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall topmast
To see if I can spy land?”
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall topmast,—
But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.”
A step, but barely ane,
When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side
And let na the sea come in.”
Another o’ the twine,
And they wapped them roun’ that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea came in.
To weet their cork-heeled shoon!
But lang or a’ the play was played,
They wat their hats aboon.
That floated on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair came hame.
The maidens tore their hair;
A’ for the sake of their true loves,—
For them they’ll see na mair.
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
Wi’ their gowd kaims in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they’ll see na mair.
’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.