PATRICK SPENS
(old Scottish ballad learned from Allen Kaplan; also found in Child ballads)
The king sits in Dumfermline toon,
Then up and spak an eldern knicht,
Our king has written a braid letter
The first word that Sir Patrick read,
O, wha is this has done this dedd,
Be't wind, be't weet, be't hail, be't sleet
They hoised their sails on a Monday morn,
Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men al'
I saw the new moon late yestre'en,
They had nae sailed a league, a league,
The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,
Go fetch a web o' the silken claith,
They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
O, laith, laith were our gude Scots lairds
And mony was the feather bed
O, lang, lang may their ladies sit
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
(from miriam berg's folksong collection)
Drinkin' the bluidred wine,
Ah, wheer will I get a skeely skipper
Tae sail this ship o' mine?
Sat at the king's richt knee,
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.
And seal'd it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Wha was walkin' on the Strand.
A loud lauch lauched he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.
And tauld the king o' me?
To send us out this time o' year,
To sail upon the sea.
Our ship must sail the faem,
The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis we maun fetch her hame.
Wi' a' the speed they may;
And they ha' landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.
Our gude ship sails the morn,
O say not so, my master dear,
For I fear a deadly storm.
Wi' the auld moon in her arms,
And if we gang tae sea, master,
I fear we'll come tae harm.
A league, but barely three
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew hard,
And gurly grew the sea.
It was sic' a deadly storm,
And the waves came ovre the broken ship
Till all her sides were torn.
Anither o' the twine,
And wap them into our gude ship's side
And let nae the sea come in.
Anither o' the twine,
And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side,
But still the sea came in.
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd,
They wat their hats aboon.
That fluttered on the faem;
And mony was the gude laird's son
That never mair cam' hame.
Wi' their fans all in their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailin' tae the Strand.
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waitin' for their ain dear loves,
For they'll see them nae mair.
'Tis fi'ty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lairds at his feet.