The king sits in Dumferling toune, <br />Drinking the blude-reid wine: <br />"O whar will I get guid sailor, <br />To sail this schip of mine?" <br /> <br />Up and spak an eldern knicht, <br />Sat at the kings richt kne: <br />"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor <br />That sails upon the se." <br /> <br />The king has written a braid letter, <br />And signd it wi his hand, <br />And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, <br />Was walking on the sand. <br /> <br />The first line that Sir Patrick red, <br />A loud lauch lauched he; <br />The next line that Sir Patrick red, <br />The teir blinded his ee. <br /> <br />"O wha is this has don this deid, <br />This ill deid don to me, <br />To send me out this time o' the yeir, <br />To sail upon the se! <br /> <br />"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, <br />Our guid schip sails the morne:" <br />"O say na sae, my master deir, <br />For I feir a deadlie storme. <br /> <br />"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, <br />Wi the auld moone in hir arme, <br />And I feir, I feir, my deir master, <br />That we will cum to harme." <br /> <br />O our Scots nobles wer richt laith <br />To weet their cork-heild schoone; <br />Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, <br />Thair hats they swam aboone. <br /> <br />O lang, lang may their ladies sit, <br />Wi thair fans into their hand, <br />Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence <br />Cum sailing to the land. <br /> <br />O lang, lang may the ladies stand, <br />Wi thair gold kems in their hair, <br />Waiting for thair ain deir lords, <br />For they'll se thame na mair. <br /> <br />Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, <br />It's fiftie fadom deip, <br />And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, <br />Wi the Scots lords at his feit.<br /><br />Anonymous<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sir-patrick-spence/
