Classic Poem

The king sits in Dumferling town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
"O whare will I get a skeely skipper,
To sail this new ship o' mine?'

Up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the kings right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o're the faem;
The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud, loud laugh'd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The teir blinded his eee.

"O wha is this has don this deed,
And tauld the king o' me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the see?

'Be it wind be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

Thy hoysed their sails on Monenday morn
Wi'a' the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

II. The Return

Mak ready mak ready my merry men a'!
Our gude schip sails the morn:'
"Now ever alack, my master deir,
I fear a deadlie storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi' the aud moon in her arml
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the seaThe ankers brak, and teh topmast lap,
It was sic a deadly storm:
And the waves cam owre the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

"Go fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Another o' the twine,
And wap them into our ship's side,
And let nae the sea come in."

They fetch'd a web o' the twine,
And they wapp'd them roudn that guide ship's side,
But still the sea came in

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was teh feather bed
That flatter'd on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son
That never made it hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!