| I. The Sailing
THE king sits in Dunfermline town |
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| Drinking the blude-red wine; |
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| ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper |
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| To sail this new ship o’ mine?’ |
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| O up and spak an eldern knight, |
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| Sat at the king’s right knee; |
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| ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor |
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| That ever sail’d the sea.’ |
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| Our king has written a braid letter, |
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| And seal’d it with his hand, |
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| And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, |
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| Was walking on the strand. |
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| ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, |
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| To Noroway o’er the faem; |
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| The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, |
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| ’Tis thou must bring her hame.’ |
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| The first word that Sir Patrick read |
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| So loud, loud laugh’d he; |
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| The neist word that Sir Patrick read |
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| The tear blinded his e’e. |
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| ‘O wha is this has done this deed |
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| And tauld the king o’ me, |
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| To send us out, at this time o’ year, |
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| To sail upon the sea? |
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| ‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, |
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| Our ship must sail the faem; |
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| The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, |
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| ’Tis we must fetch her hame.’ |
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| They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn |
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| Wi’ a’ the speed they may; |
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| They hae landed in Noroway |
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| Upon a Wodensday. |
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| II. The Return
‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’! |
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| Our gude ship sails the morn.’ |
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| ‘Now ever alack, my master dear, |
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| I fear a deadly storm. |
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| ‘I saw the new moon late yestreen |
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| Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; |
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| And if we gang to sea, master, |
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| I fear we’ll come to harm.’ |
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| They hadna sail’d a league, a league, |
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| A league but barely three, |
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| When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, |
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| And gurly grew the sea. |
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| The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, |
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| It was sic a deadly storm: |
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| And the waves cam owre the broken ship |
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| Till a’ her sides were torn. |
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| ‘Go fetch a web o’ the silken claith, |
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| Another o’ the twine, |
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| And wap them into our ship’s side, |
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| And let nae the sea come in.’ |
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| They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith, |
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| Another o’ the twine, |
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| And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side, |
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| But still the sea came in. |
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| O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords |
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| To wet their cork-heel’d shoon; |
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| But lang or a’ the play was play’d |
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| They wat their hats aboon. |
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| And mony was the feather bed |
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| That flatter’d on the faem; |
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| And mony was the gude lord’s son |
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| That never mair cam hame. |
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| O lang, lang may the ladies sit, |
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| Wi’ their fans into their hand, |
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| Before they see Sir Patrick Spens |
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| Come sailing to the strand! |
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| And lang, lang may the maidens sit |
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| Wi’ their gowd kames in their hair, |
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| A-waiting for their ain dear loves! |
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| For them they’ll see nae mair. |
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| Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, |
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| ’Tis fifty fathoms deep; |
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| And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, |
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| Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet! |
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