And sent it to Sir Patrick
Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick
red,
A loud lauch lauchèd he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
"Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry
men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne."
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the
new moone,
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone,
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Their hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies
sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Or ere they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi' their gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for their ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit. |