F

Motherwell's MS., p. 348.

1The king sits in Dumfermline toun,Sae merrilie drinking wine; OSays, Whare will I get a fine skipper,Wud sail these ships of mine? O2Out and spak an auld rich knicht,And an ill death may he die!Says, Young Patrick is the best skipperThat ever set sail on sea.3The king did write a lang letter,Sealed it with his own hand,And he sent it to Young Patrick,To come at his command.4When Young Patrick read the letter lang,The tear blindit his ee;Says Wha is this, or wha is that,That's tauld the king of me?Altho he had been better than what he is,He micht hae askt leave of me.5'But busk, O busk, my merry men a',O busk and mak you braw,For blaw the wind what airt it will,Our ship she must awa.6'Drink, O drink, my merrie men all,Drink o the beer and wine,For gin Wedensday by twal o'clockWe'll a' be in our lang hame.'7Out and spak a pretty little boy:'I fear a deadlie storm;For I saw the new mune late yestreen,And the old ane in her arm,And readilie, maister,' said he,'That's the sign of a deadly storm.'8Aye they sat, and aye they drank,They drank of the beer and wine,And gin Wedensday gin ten o'clock,Their hair was wat abune.9'Whare wuld I get a pretty little boy,That wants to win hose and shoon,Wuld up to the top of my mainmast go,See if he could spy land?'10O here am I, a pretty little boy,Wants to win hose and shoon;I'll up to the top of your mainmast go,Though I should neer come doun.'11'Come doun, come doun, my pretty little boy,I think thou tarries lang;For the jawe is coming in at my coat-neck,Going out at my richt hand.'12But there cum a shouir out o the Norewest,Of dreidfu hail and rain,It made Young Patrick and his menA' flat wi the sea faem.13O is na it a great pityeTo see feather-beds on the main?But it is a greater pitye, I think,To see men doing the same.14There's a brig at the back o Sanct John's toun,It's fifty fadom deep,And there lies a' our brau Scots lords,Young Patrick's at their feet.15Young Patrick's lady sits at hame,She's sewing her silken seam;And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves,'I fear he'll neer return.'16Young Patrick's lady sits at hameRocking her oldest son;And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves,'I'm feared he'll neer come hame.'

1The king sits in Dumfermline toun,Sae merrilie drinking wine; OSays, Whare will I get a fine skipper,Wud sail these ships of mine? O

2Out and spak an auld rich knicht,And an ill death may he die!Says, Young Patrick is the best skipperThat ever set sail on sea.

3The king did write a lang letter,Sealed it with his own hand,And he sent it to Young Patrick,To come at his command.

4When Young Patrick read the letter lang,The tear blindit his ee;Says Wha is this, or wha is that,That's tauld the king of me?Altho he had been better than what he is,He micht hae askt leave of me.

5'But busk, O busk, my merry men a',O busk and mak you braw,For blaw the wind what airt it will,Our ship she must awa.

6'Drink, O drink, my merrie men all,Drink o the beer and wine,For gin Wedensday by twal o'clockWe'll a' be in our lang hame.'

7Out and spak a pretty little boy:'I fear a deadlie storm;For I saw the new mune late yestreen,And the old ane in her arm,And readilie, maister,' said he,'That's the sign of a deadly storm.'

8Aye they sat, and aye they drank,They drank of the beer and wine,And gin Wedensday gin ten o'clock,Their hair was wat abune.

9'Whare wuld I get a pretty little boy,That wants to win hose and shoon,Wuld up to the top of my mainmast go,See if he could spy land?'

10O here am I, a pretty little boy,Wants to win hose and shoon;I'll up to the top of your mainmast go,Though I should neer come doun.'

11'Come doun, come doun, my pretty little boy,I think thou tarries lang;For the jawe is coming in at my coat-neck,Going out at my richt hand.'

12But there cum a shouir out o the Norewest,Of dreidfu hail and rain,It made Young Patrick and his menA' flat wi the sea faem.

13O is na it a great pityeTo see feather-beds on the main?But it is a greater pitye, I think,To see men doing the same.

14There's a brig at the back o Sanct John's toun,It's fifty fadom deep,And there lies a' our brau Scots lords,Young Patrick's at their feet.

15Young Patrick's lady sits at hame,She's sewing her silken seam;And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves,'I fear he'll neer return.'

16Young Patrick's lady sits at hameRocking her oldest son;And aye when she looks to the salt sea waves,'I'm feared he'll neer come hame.'

Motherwell's MS., p. 153, from the recitation of Mrs Thomson.

1The king he sits on Dunfermline hill,Drinking baith beer and wine; OSays, Whare shall I get a good skipper,That will sail the salt sea fine? O2But out then speaks an Irish knight,Sat by the king's right knee:'Skipper Patrick is the best skipperThat ever my eyes did see.'3The king has written a lang letter,And sealed it wi his hand,And sent it to Skipper Patrick,As he walked alang the sand.4'O wha is this, or wha is that,That's tauld the king of me?For tho it had been the queen hersell,She might hae let it be.5'But busk you, O busk, my merry men all,Sae merrily busk and boune,For blaw the wind where eer it will,Our gude ship sails the morn.'6'O no, O no, our dear master,It will be a deidly storm;For yestreen I saw the new new mune,Wi the auld mune in her arm;It's a token, maister, or ye were born,It will be a deadly storm.'7'But busk, O busk, my merrie men all,Our gude ship sails the morn,For blow the wind whereer it will,Our gude ship sails the morn.'8They had na sailed a day, a day,A day but scarsely five,Till Skipper Patrick's bonny shipBegan to crack and rive.9It's bonny was the feather bedsThat swimmed alang the main,But bonnier was our braw Scots lords,They neer returned again.10Our Scots lords they are all laithTo weet their coal black shoon;But I trow or a' the play was played,They wat their hair abune.11Our ladies may stand upon the sand,Kembing down their yellow hair,But they will neer see Skipper Patrick's shipCome sailing in nae mair.12Our ladies may stand upon the sandWi gloves upon their hand,But they will never see Skipper Patrick's shipCome sailing into the land.13O vour and o vour to bonnie AberdourIt's fifty fadoms deep;There you will find young Patrick lye,Wi his Scots lords at his head.14Row owre, row owre to Aberdour,It's fifty fadom deep;And there lies Earl Patrick Spens,His men all at his feet.

1The king he sits on Dunfermline hill,Drinking baith beer and wine; OSays, Whare shall I get a good skipper,That will sail the salt sea fine? O

2But out then speaks an Irish knight,Sat by the king's right knee:'Skipper Patrick is the best skipperThat ever my eyes did see.'

3The king has written a lang letter,And sealed it wi his hand,And sent it to Skipper Patrick,As he walked alang the sand.

4'O wha is this, or wha is that,That's tauld the king of me?For tho it had been the queen hersell,She might hae let it be.

5'But busk you, O busk, my merry men all,Sae merrily busk and boune,For blaw the wind where eer it will,Our gude ship sails the morn.'

6'O no, O no, our dear master,It will be a deidly storm;For yestreen I saw the new new mune,Wi the auld mune in her arm;It's a token, maister, or ye were born,It will be a deadly storm.'

7'But busk, O busk, my merrie men all,Our gude ship sails the morn,For blow the wind whereer it will,Our gude ship sails the morn.'

8They had na sailed a day, a day,A day but scarsely five,Till Skipper Patrick's bonny shipBegan to crack and rive.

9It's bonny was the feather bedsThat swimmed alang the main,But bonnier was our braw Scots lords,They neer returned again.

10Our Scots lords they are all laithTo weet their coal black shoon;But I trow or a' the play was played,They wat their hair abune.

11Our ladies may stand upon the sand,Kembing down their yellow hair,But they will neer see Skipper Patrick's shipCome sailing in nae mair.

12Our ladies may stand upon the sandWi gloves upon their hand,But they will never see Skipper Patrick's shipCome sailing into the land.

13O vour and o vour to bonnie AberdourIt's fifty fadoms deep;There you will find young Patrick lye,Wi his Scots lords at his head.

14Row owre, row owre to Aberdour,It's fifty fadom deep;And there lies Earl Patrick Spens,His men all at his feet.

Jamieson's Popular Ballads, I, 157, communicated by Scott.

1The king sits in Dunfermlin town,Sae merrily drinkin the wine:'Whare will I get a mariner,Will sail this ship o mine?'2Then up bespak a bonny boy,Sat just at the king's knee:'Sir Patrick Spence is the best seaman,That eer set foot on sea.'3The king has written a braid letter,Seald it wi his ain hand;He has sent word to Sir Patrick,To come at his command.4'O wha is this, or wha is that,Has tald the king o me?For I was never a good seaman,Nor ever intend to be.'5They mounted sail on Munenday morn,Wi a' the haste they may,And they hae landed in Norraway,Upon the Wednesday.6They hadna been a month, a monthIn Norraway but three,Till lads o Norraway began to say,Ye spend a' our white monie.7'Ye spend a' our good kingis goud,But and our queenis fee:''Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Sae weel's I hear you lie.8'For I brought as much white moneyAs will gain my men and me;I brought half a fou o good red goudOut oer the sea with me.9'Be't wind or weet, be't snaw or sleet,Our ships maun sail the morn:''O ever alack! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.10'I saw the new moon late yestreen,Wi the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll suffer harm.'11They hadna sailed a league on sea,A league but barely ane,Till anchors brak, and tap-masts lap;There came a deadly storm.12'Whare will I get a bonny boyWill tak thir sails in hand,That will gang up to the tap-mast,See an he ken dry land?'13Laith, laith were our good Scots lordsTo weet their leathern shoon;But or the morn at fair day-light,Their hats were wat aboon.14Mony was the feather bed,That flotterd on the faem,And mony was the good Scots lordGaed awa that neer cam hame,And mony was the fatherless bairnThat lay at hame greetin.15It's forty miles to Aberdeen,And fifty fathoms deep;And there lyes a' our good Scots lords,Wi Sir Patrick at their feet.16The ladies crackt their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake o their true loves,For them they neer saw mair.17Lang, lang may our ladies stand,Wi their fans in their hand,Ere they see Sir Patrick and his menCome sailing to the land.

1The king sits in Dunfermlin town,Sae merrily drinkin the wine:'Whare will I get a mariner,Will sail this ship o mine?'

2Then up bespak a bonny boy,Sat just at the king's knee:'Sir Patrick Spence is the best seaman,That eer set foot on sea.'

3The king has written a braid letter,Seald it wi his ain hand;He has sent word to Sir Patrick,To come at his command.

4'O wha is this, or wha is that,Has tald the king o me?For I was never a good seaman,Nor ever intend to be.'

5They mounted sail on Munenday morn,Wi a' the haste they may,And they hae landed in Norraway,Upon the Wednesday.

6They hadna been a month, a monthIn Norraway but three,Till lads o Norraway began to say,Ye spend a' our white monie.

7'Ye spend a' our good kingis goud,But and our queenis fee:''Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Sae weel's I hear you lie.

8'For I brought as much white moneyAs will gain my men and me;I brought half a fou o good red goudOut oer the sea with me.

9'Be't wind or weet, be't snaw or sleet,Our ships maun sail the morn:''O ever alack! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.

10'I saw the new moon late yestreen,Wi the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll suffer harm.'

11They hadna sailed a league on sea,A league but barely ane,Till anchors brak, and tap-masts lap;There came a deadly storm.

12'Whare will I get a bonny boyWill tak thir sails in hand,That will gang up to the tap-mast,See an he ken dry land?'

13Laith, laith were our good Scots lordsTo weet their leathern shoon;But or the morn at fair day-light,Their hats were wat aboon.

14Mony was the feather bed,That flotterd on the faem,And mony was the good Scots lordGaed awa that neer cam hame,And mony was the fatherless bairnThat lay at hame greetin.

15It's forty miles to Aberdeen,And fifty fathoms deep;And there lyes a' our good Scots lords,Wi Sir Patrick at their feet.

16The ladies crackt their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake o their true loves,For them they neer saw mair.

17Lang, lang may our ladies stand,Wi their fans in their hand,Ere they see Sir Patrick and his menCome sailing to the land.

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, III, 64, ed. 1803; I, 299, ed. 1833; "taken from two MS. copies, collated with several verses recited by the editor's friend, Robert Hamilton, Esq., Advocate."

1The king sits in Dumfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine: O'O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship of mine?' O2O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee:'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever saild the sea.'3Our king has written a braid letter,And seald it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.4'To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway oer the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'T is thou maun bring her hame.'5The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his ee.6'O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o me,To send us out at this time of the yearTo sail upon the sea?7'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'T is we must fetch her hame.'8They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.9They hadna been a week, a weekIn Noroway but twae,When that the lords o NorowayBegan aloud to say:10'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee!''Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Fu loud I hear ye lie!11'For I brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o gude red goudOut oer the sea wi me.12'Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a',Our gude ship sails the morn:''Now, ever alake! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!13'I saw the new moon late yestreen,Wi the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm.'14They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.15The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm,And the waves came oer the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.16'O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall topmast,To see if I can spy land?'17'O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall topmast;But I fear you'll neer spy land.'18He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.19'Gae fetch a web o the silken claith,Another o the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in.'20They fetched a web o the silken claith,Another o the twine,And they wapped them roun that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.21O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeld shoon;But lang or a' the play was playd,They wat their hats aboon.22And mony was the feather-bedThat flattered on the faem,And mony was the gude lord's sonThat never mair cam hame.23The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves,For them they'll see na mair.24O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,Wi their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand.25And lang, lang may the maidens sit,Wi their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see na mair.26O forty miles off Aberdeen'T is fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi the Scots lords at his feet.

1The king sits in Dumfermline town,Drinking the blude-red wine: O'O whare will I get a skeely skipper,To sail this new ship of mine?' O

2O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king's right knee:'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever saild the sea.'

3Our king has written a braid letter,And seald it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.

4'To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway oer the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'T is thou maun bring her hame.'

5The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud, loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his ee.

6'O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o me,To send us out at this time of the yearTo sail upon the sea?

7'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king's daughter of Noroway,'T is we must fetch her hame.'

8They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi a' the speed they may;They hae landed in Noroway,Upon a Wodensday.

9They hadna been a week, a weekIn Noroway but twae,When that the lords o NorowayBegan aloud to say:

10'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,And a' our queenis fee!''Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,Fu loud I hear ye lie!

11'For I brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me,And I brought a half-fou o gude red goudOut oer the sea wi me.

12'Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a',Our gude ship sails the morn:''Now, ever alake! my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!

13'I saw the new moon late yestreen,Wi the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we'll come to harm.'

14They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.

15The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,It was sic a deadly storm,And the waves came oer the broken ship,Till a' her sides were torn.

16'O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall topmast,To see if I can spy land?'

17'O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall topmast;But I fear you'll neer spy land.'

18He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.

19'Gae fetch a web o the silken claith,Another o the twine,And wap them into our ship's side,And letna the sea come in.'

20They fetched a web o the silken claith,Another o the twine,And they wapped them roun that gude ship's side,But still the sea came in.

21O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeld shoon;But lang or a' the play was playd,They wat their hats aboon.

22And mony was the feather-bedThat flattered on the faem,And mony was the gude lord's sonThat never mair cam hame.

23The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A' for the sake of their true loves,For them they'll see na mair.

24O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,Wi their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand.

25And lang, lang may the maidens sit,Wi their goud kaims in their hair,A' waiting for their ain dear loves,For them they'll see na mair.

26O forty miles off Aberdeen'T is fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi the Scots lords at his feet.

Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 1; Motherwell's MS., p. 550.

1The king sits in Dunfermline town,A-drinking at the wine;Says, Where will I get a good skipper,Will sail the saut seas fine?2Out it speaks an eldren knightAmang the companie:'Young Patrick Spens is the best skipperThat ever saild the sea.'3The king he wrote a braid letter,And seald it wi his ring;Says, Ye'll gie that to Patrick Spens,See if ye can him find.4He sent this not wi an auld man,Nor yet a simple boy,But the best o nobles in his trainThis letter did convoy.5When Patrick lookd the letter uponA light laugh then gae he;But ere he read it till an end,The tear blinded his ee.6'Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a',An see ye be weell thorn;For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind,My guid ship sails the morn.'7Then out it speaks a guid auld man,A guid death mat he dee!'Whatever ye do, my guid master,Tak God your guide to bee.8'For late yestreen I saw the new moon,The auld moon in her arm:''Ohon, alas!' says Patrick Spens,'That bodes a deadly storm.9'But I maun sail the seas the morn,And likewise sae maun you;To Noroway, wi our king's daughter,A chosen queen she's now.10'But I wonder who has been sae baseAs tauld the king o mee;Even tho he ware my ae brither,An ill death mat he dee!'11Now Patrick he riggd out his ship,And sailed ower the faem,But mony a dreary thought had hee,While hee was on the main.12They hadna saild upon the seaA day but barely three,Till they came in sight o Noroway,It's there where they must bee.13They hadna stayed into that placeA month but and a day,Till he causd the flip in mugs gae roun,And wine in cans sae gay.14The pipe and harp sae sweetly playd,The trumpets loudly soun;In every hall where in they stayd,Wi their mirth did reboun.15Then out it speaks an auld skipper,An inbearing dog was hee:'Ye've stayd ower lang in Noroway,Spending your king's monie.'16Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens:'O how can a' this bee?I hae a bow o guid red gowdInto my ship wi mee.17'But betide me well, betide me wae,This day I'se leave the shore,And never spend my king's monieMong Noroway dogs no more.'18Young Patrick hee is on the sea,And even on the faem,Wi five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons,That langd to bee at hame.19They hadna saild upon the seaA day but barely three,Till loud and boistrous grew the wind,And stormy grew the sea.20'O where will I get a little wee boyWill tak my helm in hand,Till I gae up to my tapmast,And see for some dry land?'21He hadna gane to his tapmastA step but barely three,Ere thro and thro the bonny ship's sideHe saw the green haw sea.22'There are five-an-fifty feather bedsWell packed in ae room;And ye'll get as muckle guid canvasAs wrap the ship a' roun.23'Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not,And mak her hale and soun:'But ere he had the word well spokeThe bonny ship was down.24O laith, laith were our guid lords' sonsTo weet their milk-white hands;But lang ere a' the play was ower,They wat their gowden bands.25O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sonsTo weet their coal-black shoon;But lang ere a' the play was ower,They wat their hats aboon.26It's even ower by AberdourIt's fifty fathoms deep,And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,And a's men at his feet.27It's even ower by Aberdour,There's mony a craig and fin,And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,Wi mony a guid lord's son.28Lang, lang will the ladyes look,Into their morning weed,Before they see young Patrick SpensCome sailing ower the fleed.29Lang, lang will the ladyes look,Wi their fans in their hand,Before they see him Patrick SpensCome sailing to dry land.

1The king sits in Dunfermline town,A-drinking at the wine;Says, Where will I get a good skipper,Will sail the saut seas fine?

2Out it speaks an eldren knightAmang the companie:'Young Patrick Spens is the best skipperThat ever saild the sea.'

3The king he wrote a braid letter,And seald it wi his ring;Says, Ye'll gie that to Patrick Spens,See if ye can him find.

4He sent this not wi an auld man,Nor yet a simple boy,But the best o nobles in his trainThis letter did convoy.

5When Patrick lookd the letter uponA light laugh then gae he;But ere he read it till an end,The tear blinded his ee.

6'Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a',An see ye be weell thorn;For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind,My guid ship sails the morn.'

7Then out it speaks a guid auld man,A guid death mat he dee!'Whatever ye do, my guid master,Tak God your guide to bee.

8'For late yestreen I saw the new moon,The auld moon in her arm:''Ohon, alas!' says Patrick Spens,'That bodes a deadly storm.

9'But I maun sail the seas the morn,And likewise sae maun you;To Noroway, wi our king's daughter,A chosen queen she's now.

10'But I wonder who has been sae baseAs tauld the king o mee;Even tho he ware my ae brither,An ill death mat he dee!'

11Now Patrick he riggd out his ship,And sailed ower the faem,But mony a dreary thought had hee,While hee was on the main.

12They hadna saild upon the seaA day but barely three,Till they came in sight o Noroway,It's there where they must bee.

13They hadna stayed into that placeA month but and a day,Till he causd the flip in mugs gae roun,And wine in cans sae gay.

14The pipe and harp sae sweetly playd,The trumpets loudly soun;In every hall where in they stayd,Wi their mirth did reboun.

15Then out it speaks an auld skipper,An inbearing dog was hee:'Ye've stayd ower lang in Noroway,Spending your king's monie.'

16Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens:'O how can a' this bee?I hae a bow o guid red gowdInto my ship wi mee.

17'But betide me well, betide me wae,This day I'se leave the shore,And never spend my king's monieMong Noroway dogs no more.'

18Young Patrick hee is on the sea,And even on the faem,Wi five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons,That langd to bee at hame.

19They hadna saild upon the seaA day but barely three,Till loud and boistrous grew the wind,And stormy grew the sea.

20'O where will I get a little wee boyWill tak my helm in hand,Till I gae up to my tapmast,And see for some dry land?'

21He hadna gane to his tapmastA step but barely three,Ere thro and thro the bonny ship's sideHe saw the green haw sea.

22'There are five-an-fifty feather bedsWell packed in ae room;And ye'll get as muckle guid canvasAs wrap the ship a' roun.

23'Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not,And mak her hale and soun:'But ere he had the word well spokeThe bonny ship was down.

24O laith, laith were our guid lords' sonsTo weet their milk-white hands;But lang ere a' the play was ower,They wat their gowden bands.

25O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sonsTo weet their coal-black shoon;But lang ere a' the play was ower,They wat their hats aboon.

26It's even ower by AberdourIt's fifty fathoms deep,And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,And a's men at his feet.

27It's even ower by Aberdour,There's mony a craig and fin,And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,Wi mony a guid lord's son.

28Lang, lang will the ladyes look,Into their morning weed,Before they see young Patrick SpensCome sailing ower the fleed.

29Lang, lang will the ladyes look,Wi their fans in their hand,Before they see him Patrick SpensCome sailing to dry land.

Miss Harris's MS., fol. 4, from the singing of her mother.

1Hie sits oor king in Dumfermline,Sits birlin at the wine;Says, Whare will I get a bonnie boyThat will sail the saut seas fine?That will hie owre to Norraway,To bring my dear dochter hame?2Up it spak a bonnie boy,Sat by the king's ain knie:'Sir Patrick Spens is as gude a skipperAs ever sailed the sea.'3The king has wrote a broad letter,And signed it wi his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,To read it gif he can.4The firsten line he luikit on,A licht lauchter gae he;But ere he read it to the end,The tear blindit his ee.5'O wha is this, or wha is that,Has tauld oor king o me?I wad hae gien him twice as muckle thankTo latten that abee!6'But eat an drink, my merrie young men,Eat, an be weel forn;For blaw it wind, or blaw it weet,Oor gude ship sails the morn.'7Up it spak his youngest son,Sat by Sir Patrick's knie:'I beg you bide at hame, father,An I pray be ruled by me.8'For I saw the new mune late yestreen,Wi the auld mune in her arms;An ever an alake, my father dear,It's a token o diedly storms.'9'It's eat an drink, my merrie young men,Eat, an be weel forn;For blaw it wind, or blaw it weet,Oor gude ship sails the morn.'10They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only three,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsCam drivin to their knie.11They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only five,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsTheir gude ship began to rive.12They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only nine,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsCam drivin to their chin.13'O whaur will I get a bonnie boyWill tak the steer in hand,Till I mount up to oor tapmast,To luik oot for dry land?'14'O here am I, a bonnie boy,Will tak the steer in hand,Till you mount up to oor tapmast,To luik oot for dry land.'15He's gaen up to the tapmast,To the tapmast sae hie;He luikit around on every side,But dry land he couldna see.16He luikit on his youngest son,An the tear blindit his ee;Says, I wish you had been in your mother's bowr,But there you'll never be.17'Pray for yoursels, my merrie young men,Pray for yoursels an me,For the first landen that we will landWill be in the boddam o the sea.'18Then up it raise the mermaiden,Wi the comb an glass in her hand:'Here's a health to you, my merrie young men,For you never will see dry land.'19O laith, laith waur oor gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon;But lang, lang ere the play was played,Their yellow locks soomed aboun.20There was Saturday, an Sabbath day,An Monnonday at morn,That feather-beds an silken sheetsCam floatin to Kinghorn.21It's och, och owre to Aberdour,It's fifty faddoms deep;An there lie a' oor gude Scots lords,Wi Sir Patrick Spens at their feet.22O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the fan into her hand,Until she see her ain dear lordCome sailin to dry land.23O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the tear into her ee,Afore she see her ain dear lordCome hieing to Dundee.24O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the black shoon on her feet,Afore she see Sir Patrick SpensCome drivin up the street.

1Hie sits oor king in Dumfermline,Sits birlin at the wine;Says, Whare will I get a bonnie boyThat will sail the saut seas fine?That will hie owre to Norraway,To bring my dear dochter hame?

2Up it spak a bonnie boy,Sat by the king's ain knie:'Sir Patrick Spens is as gude a skipperAs ever sailed the sea.'

3The king has wrote a broad letter,And signed it wi his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,To read it gif he can.

4The firsten line he luikit on,A licht lauchter gae he;But ere he read it to the end,The tear blindit his ee.

5'O wha is this, or wha is that,Has tauld oor king o me?I wad hae gien him twice as muckle thankTo latten that abee!

6'But eat an drink, my merrie young men,Eat, an be weel forn;For blaw it wind, or blaw it weet,Oor gude ship sails the morn.'

7Up it spak his youngest son,Sat by Sir Patrick's knie:'I beg you bide at hame, father,An I pray be ruled by me.

8'For I saw the new mune late yestreen,Wi the auld mune in her arms;An ever an alake, my father dear,It's a token o diedly storms.'

9'It's eat an drink, my merrie young men,Eat, an be weel forn;For blaw it wind, or blaw it weet,Oor gude ship sails the morn.'

10They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only three,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsCam drivin to their knie.

11They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only five,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsTheir gude ship began to rive.

12They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but only nine,When the whirlin wind an the ugly jawsCam drivin to their chin.

13'O whaur will I get a bonnie boyWill tak the steer in hand,Till I mount up to oor tapmast,To luik oot for dry land?'

14'O here am I, a bonnie boy,Will tak the steer in hand,Till you mount up to oor tapmast,To luik oot for dry land.'

15He's gaen up to the tapmast,To the tapmast sae hie;He luikit around on every side,But dry land he couldna see.

16He luikit on his youngest son,An the tear blindit his ee;Says, I wish you had been in your mother's bowr,But there you'll never be.

17'Pray for yoursels, my merrie young men,Pray for yoursels an me,For the first landen that we will landWill be in the boddam o the sea.'

18Then up it raise the mermaiden,Wi the comb an glass in her hand:'Here's a health to you, my merrie young men,For you never will see dry land.'

19O laith, laith waur oor gude Scots lordsTo weet their cork-heeled shoon;But lang, lang ere the play was played,Their yellow locks soomed aboun.

20There was Saturday, an Sabbath day,An Monnonday at morn,That feather-beds an silken sheetsCam floatin to Kinghorn.

21It's och, och owre to Aberdour,It's fifty faddoms deep;An there lie a' oor gude Scots lords,Wi Sir Patrick Spens at their feet.

22O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the fan into her hand,Until she see her ain dear lordCome sailin to dry land.

23O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the tear into her ee,Afore she see her ain dear lordCome hieing to Dundee.

24O lang, lang will his lady sit,Wi the black shoon on her feet,Afore she see Sir Patrick SpensCome drivin up the street.

Communicated by Mr Murison, as taken down from recitation in Old Deer by Mrs Murison.

* * * * *1It's when he read the letter owerA licht lauch then leuch he;But lang ere he wan the end o itThe saut tear filled his ee.2'O woe be to the man,' he says,'That's tauld the king o me;Altho he be my ain brither,Some ill death mat he dee!3. . . . . . .. . . . . . .'For be it weet, or be it win,My bonnie ship sails the morn.'* * * * *4'For late the streen I saw the new meen,Bit an the auld ane tee,An it fears me sair, my good maister,For a tempest in the sea.'5. . . . . . .. . . . . . .Till up it rase the win an storm,An a tempest i the sea.6. . . . . . .. . . . . . .It's throch an throu the comely cogThere comes the green raw sea.* * * * *7'Call upo your men, maister,An dinna call on me,For ye drank them weel ere ye tuke the gate,But O nane gae ye me.8'Ye beat my back, an beat my sides,When I socht hose an sheen;So call upo your men, maister,As they lie drunk wi wine.'9'Come doon, come doon, my bonnie boy,An tak my helm in han;Gin ever we live to gae to lan,I'll wed ye wi my daughter Ann.'10'Ye used me ill, my guid maister,When we was on the lan,But nevertheless, my gude maister,I'll tak your helm in han.'11O laith, laith was oor bonny boysTo weet their cork-heeled shoes;But lang ere a' the play was played,They wat their yallow broos.12O laith, laith was oor bonnie boysTo weet their cork-heeled sheen;But lang ere a' the play was played,They wat their hair abeen.13'O lang, lang will my lady leuk,Wi the lantern in her han,Afore she see my bonnie shipCome sailin to dry lan.'14Atween Leith an AberdeenLies mony a craig an sea,An there it lies young Patrick Spens,An mony bonnie boys him wi.

* * * * *

1It's when he read the letter owerA licht lauch then leuch he;But lang ere he wan the end o itThe saut tear filled his ee.

2'O woe be to the man,' he says,'That's tauld the king o me;Altho he be my ain brither,Some ill death mat he dee!

3. . . . . . .. . . . . . .'For be it weet, or be it win,My bonnie ship sails the morn.'

* * * * *

4'For late the streen I saw the new meen,Bit an the auld ane tee,An it fears me sair, my good maister,For a tempest in the sea.'

5. . . . . . .. . . . . . .Till up it rase the win an storm,An a tempest i the sea.

6. . . . . . .. . . . . . .It's throch an throu the comely cogThere comes the green raw sea.

* * * * *

7'Call upo your men, maister,An dinna call on me,For ye drank them weel ere ye tuke the gate,But O nane gae ye me.

8'Ye beat my back, an beat my sides,When I socht hose an sheen;So call upo your men, maister,As they lie drunk wi wine.'

9'Come doon, come doon, my bonnie boy,An tak my helm in han;Gin ever we live to gae to lan,I'll wed ye wi my daughter Ann.'

10'Ye used me ill, my guid maister,When we was on the lan,But nevertheless, my gude maister,I'll tak your helm in han.'

11O laith, laith was oor bonny boysTo weet their cork-heeled shoes;But lang ere a' the play was played,They wat their yallow broos.

12O laith, laith was oor bonnie boysTo weet their cork-heeled sheen;But lang ere a' the play was played,They wat their hair abeen.

13'O lang, lang will my lady leuk,Wi the lantern in her han,Afore she see my bonnie shipCome sailin to dry lan.'

14Atween Leith an AberdeenLies mony a craig an sea,An there it lies young Patrick Spens,An mony bonnie boys him wi.

Motherwell's Note-Book, p. 6, Motherwell's MS., p. 156, from Mrs Gentles, Paisley, February 1825.

1Our ship it was a gudely ship,Its topmast was of gold,And at every tack of needleworkThere hung a silver bell.2Up started the mermaid by our ship,Wi the glass and the comb in her hand:'Reek about, reek about, my merrie men,Ye are not far from land.'3'You lie, you lie, you pretty mermaid,Sae loud as I hear you lie;For since I have seen your face this nicht,The land I will never see.'4We hadna sailed a league but ane,A league but barely three,Till all we and our goodly shipWas all drowned in the sea.5Lang lang may our ladies stand,Wi their seams into their hand,Looking for Sir Patrick's ship,That will never come to land.

1Our ship it was a gudely ship,Its topmast was of gold,And at every tack of needleworkThere hung a silver bell.

2Up started the mermaid by our ship,Wi the glass and the comb in her hand:'Reek about, reek about, my merrie men,Ye are not far from land.'

3'You lie, you lie, you pretty mermaid,Sae loud as I hear you lie;For since I have seen your face this nicht,The land I will never see.'

4We hadna sailed a league but ane,A league but barely three,Till all we and our goodly shipWas all drowned in the sea.

5Lang lang may our ladies stand,Wi their seams into their hand,Looking for Sir Patrick's ship,That will never come to land.

Buchan's Gleaning, p. 196, "from a very intelligent old man."

1There shall no man go to my shipTill I say mass and dine,And take my leave of my lady;Go to my bonny ship syne.2When he was up at the top-mast headAround could naething see,But terrible storm in the air aboon,And below the roaring sea.3'Come down, come down, my good master,You see not what I see;For thro an thro your bonny ship's sideI see the green salt sea.'4Lang lang will the ladies look,Wi their gown-tails owre their crown,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensSailing to Dunferline town.

1There shall no man go to my shipTill I say mass and dine,And take my leave of my lady;Go to my bonny ship syne.

2When he was up at the top-mast headAround could naething see,But terrible storm in the air aboon,And below the roaring sea.

3'Come down, come down, my good master,You see not what I see;For thro an thro your bonny ship's sideI see the green salt sea.'

4Lang lang will the ladies look,Wi their gown-tails owre their crown,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensSailing to Dunferline town.

Noted down from a female servant, by Joseph Robertson, July 15, 1829, Adversaria, p. 67.

1Ower and ower by AberdourThere's mony a cloudy stone,And there is mony a gude lord's sonI fear will never come home.2Lang, lang will his lady look,Wi her baby in her arms,But she'll never see Earl Patrick SpensCom walkin up the stran.3'I have a table in my room,It cost me guineas nine;I wad sink it in the seaFor ae sight o dry lan.4'There's a coat o green velvet on my back,I got it for my fee;But tho I wad gie ten thousan punds,Dry land I will never see.'

1Ower and ower by AberdourThere's mony a cloudy stone,And there is mony a gude lord's sonI fear will never come home.

2Lang, lang will his lady look,Wi her baby in her arms,But she'll never see Earl Patrick SpensCom walkin up the stran.

3'I have a table in my room,It cost me guineas nine;I wad sink it in the seaFor ae sight o dry lan.

4'There's a coat o green velvet on my back,I got it for my fee;But tho I wad gie ten thousan punds,Dry land I will never see.'

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