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,

                        For they´ll 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.

                                    Anonymous