Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.

Sir Patrick Spens

Anonymous

THE KING sits in Dunfermline town,

Drinking the blude-red wine,

‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper

To 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 sailor

That 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 maun bring her hame.’

The first word that Sir Patrick read,

Sae loud, loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,

The tear blinded his e’e.

‘O wha is this has done this deed,

And tauld the king o’ me,

To send us out, at this time o’ the 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 of Noroway,

’Tis we must fetch her hame.’

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,

Wi’ a’ the speed they may;

And they hae landed in Noroway,

Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o’ Noroway

Began aloud to say:

‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,

And a’ our queenis fee.’

‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!

‘For I hae brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me,

And I hae brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red goud,

Out o’er the sea wi’ me.

‘Make ready, make ready, my merry-men a’!

Our gude ship sails the morn.’

‘Now ever alake, my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm!

‘I saw the new moon, late yestreen,

Wi’ 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 top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,

Till a’ her sides were torn.

‘O where will I get a gude sailor,

To take my helm in hand,

Till I get up to the tall top-mast,

To see if I can spy land?’

‘O here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,

Till you get up to the tall top-mast;

But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

‘Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,

Another o’ the twine,

And they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side

But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cock-heel’d shoon!

But lang or a’ the play was play’d

Their wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed

That floated on the faem,

And mony was the gude lord’s son

That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,

The maidens tore their hair,

A’ for the sake of their true loves,

For them they’ll see na mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,

Wi’ their fans into their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,

Wi’ their goud kaims in their hair,

A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!

For them they’ll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdour,

’Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.