SIR PATRICK SPENS
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?
Up and spak an eldern knitch,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
That sails upon the se.
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red;
A laud lauch lauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o`the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
Mak hast, Mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne:
O say na sae, my master their,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme.
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a´ the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi thair fans into their hand;
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It´s fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feit.