Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
BalladsHistorical: Sir Patrick Spens
T
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare 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 sail’d the sea.’
And seal’d 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 blinded 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 queenis fee.’
‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie.
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou o’ gude red goud,
Out o’er 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 cam o’er the broken ship,
Till a’ her sides were torn.
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast,
To see if I can spy land?’
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you ’ll ne’er spy land.’
A step but barely ane,
When a bout 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 of the twine,
And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea came in.
To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!
But lang or a’ the play was play’d,
They wat their hats aboon.
That flattered on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son,
That never mair cam 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 goud 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.