The king sat in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blood-red wine,
"Oh, where will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"
Then up and spoke an eldern knight
Sat at the king's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best skipper
That ever did sail the sea"
The king has penned a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
To Noroway, Sir Patrick Spens,
To Noroway over the foam,
Queen Margaret's lass of Noroway
'Tis thou must bring her home."
The first word that Sir Patrick read
He laugh'ed loud and high
The next word that Sir Patrick read
A tear blinded his eye.
"Oh, who has done this cruel thing,
To tell the king of me,
To send me out this time o' the year
To sail upon the sea."
But be it wind, or be it sleet
My ship must sail the foam,
To seek the King of Noroway
And bring his daughter home.
"So hoist the sails, my bonny boys all,
With all the speed ye may,
For we must clear the channel bar
Before the cock crows day."
They hoist the sails, they cleared the bar
For ice-bound Noroway;
But had not anchored scarce a week
Before the lords did say:
"Ye Scotsmen spend our good king's gold,
And all our white money."
"Ye lie, ye lie!" Sir Patrick cried,
"Ye bawdy dogs, ye lie!"
"Make ready, make ready, my good men all,
For I will sail ere morn."
"O prythee, sire," his pretty page cried,
"I fear a sudden storm."
For yestreen I saw the new moon
With the old moon in her arms;
And I am faint and sore afraid
That our ship will come to harm."
They had not sailed a league, a league -
A league but scarcely three,
When the north grew black and the winds blew wild,
And the waves champed angrily.
The anchors broke, the topmast fell
It was such a deadly storm;
And then the waves came over the ship
Till all her sides were torn.
"Go fetch me a bolt of the silken cloth
And another of flaxen twine,
And wrap them into my good ship's sides
To let not the sea come in."
They fetched up a bolt of silken cloth,
And another of flaxen twine,
And wrapped them into the good ship's sides
But still the sea came in.
Oh, very loath were the good Scotch lords
To wet their cork heeled shoon,
But long ere the doleful day was done
They wet their hats aboon.
Oh, long, long may the ladies sit
With their feathers in their hands;
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.
And long, long may the ladies sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
A-waiting for their own true loves
For them they'll see no more.
For forty miles off Aberdee,
It's fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
With the Scotch lords at his feet.
