Then up and spake an eldern knight, The king has written a braid letter 'To Noroway, to Noroway, The first word that Sir Patrick read, The next word that Sir Patrick read, 'O wha is this has done this deed, And told the king o' me, To send us out at this time o' the year, To sail upon the sea? 'Be it wind, be it weet, be it sail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may, And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say; 'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie! 'For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd, Out o'er the sea wi' me. 'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn,' 'Now ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. 'I saw the new moon, late yestreen, They 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. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship 'O where will I get a gude sailor, 'O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast, But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.' He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. 'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let na the sea come in.' They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played And mony was the feather-bed, The ladyes wrang their fingers white, A' for the sake o' their true loves; O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. Scottish Border Minstrelsy. I STOOD upon the sullen shore, And marked the waves, with wild unrest, And with a deep continuous roar, Break onward to their mother's breast. But no glad greeting waited there Wailing with upborne cry they haste ANONYMOUS. |