SIR PATRICK SPENS
The king sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘Oh whare will I get a gude sailor,
To sail this ship o’ mine?’
Then up and spake an eldern knight
Sat at the king’s right knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail’d the sea.’
The king has written a braid letter,
And seal’d it wi’ his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The king’s daughter to Noroway,
’Tis thou maun tak’ her hame.’
The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The neist line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.
‘O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o’ me,
To send us out at this time o’ the year,
To sail upon the sea?’
‘Be ’t wind or weet, be ’t hail or sleet,
Our ship maun sail the faem;
The king’s daughter to Noroway,
’Tis we maun tak’ 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 Scotisman spend a’ our king’s gowd,
And a’ our queenis fee.’
‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud,
Sae loud ’s I hear ye lee!
‘For I brought as much o’ the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half-fou o’ the gude red gowd,
Out owre the sea with me.
‘Mak’ ready, mak’ ready, my merry man a’,
Our gude ship sails the morn.’
‘O say na sae, my master dear,
I fear a deadlie storm.
‘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!’
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 sea.
The ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap,
It was sic a deadlie storm;
And the waves cam’ owre the broken ship,
Till a’ her sides were torn.
‘O whare will I get a gude sailor
Will tak’ the helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall tap-mast,
To see if I can spy land.’
‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak’ the helm in hand,
Till ye get up to the tall tap-mast,
But I fear ye ’ll ne’er spy land.’
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout flew out o’ the gude ship’s side,
And the saut sea it cam’ in.
‘Gae fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Anither o’ the twine,
And wap them into our gude ship’s side,
And letna the sea come in.’
They fetch’d a wab o’ the silken claith,
Anither o’ the twine,
And they wapp’d them into the gude ship’s side,
But aye the sea cam’ in.
O laith, laith were our Scots lords’ sons
To weet their coal-black shoon,
But lang ere a’ the play was play’d,
They wat their hats abune.
And mony was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam’ 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’ the gowd kaims 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 fathom deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.
In: The Worlds’s Classics XIII: English Songs and Ballads
Compiled by T. W. H. Crosland
London, Grant Richards, 48 Leicester Square
First Impression April 1902, Second Impression April 1903
21–24. pp.
2014. október 24.
A kezdõoldalra