Folk Ballad

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 knicht, Sat at the king’s richt kne: “Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That sails upon the se.”

The king has written a braid letter, And signed it wi his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud 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 haste, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne.” “O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme.

“Late, late yestreen 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.

knicht, knight

braid, long

na sae, not so

yestreen, yesterday evening

laith, loath

weet, wet

schoone, shoes

owre, before

aboone, above

or eir, before

kems, combs

owre, over

fadom, fathoms

feit, feet