The king he wrote a braid letter, And seal'd it wi' his ring; 10 Says, "Ye'll gi'e that to Patrick Spens: See if ye can him find." He sent this, not wi' an auld man, Nor yet a simple boy, But the best o' nobles in his train 15 This letter did convoy. When Patrick look'd the letter upon A light laugh then ga'e he; But ere he read it till an end, The tear blinded his e'e. 20 "Ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a', An' see ye be weell thorn; For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind, My guid ship sails the morn." Then out it speaks a guid auld man, 25 A guid death mat he dee,-- "Whatever ye do, my guid master, Tak' God your guide to bee. "For late yestreen I saw the new moon, The auld moon in her arm." 30 "Ohon, alas!" says Patrick Spens, "That bodes a deadly storm. "But I maun sail the seas the morn, And likewise sae maun you; To Noroway, wi' our king's daughter,-- 35 A chosen queen she's now. "But I wonder who has been sae base, As tauld the king o' mee: Even tho' hee ware my ae brither, An ill death mat he dee." 40 Now Patrick he rigg'd out his ship, And sailed ower the faem; But mony a dreary thought had hee, While hee was on the main. They hadna sail'd upon the sea 45 A day but barely three, Till they came in sight o' Noroway, It's there where they must bee. They hadna stayed into that place A month but and a day, 50 Till he caus'd the flip in mugs gae roun', And wine in cans sae gay. The pipe and harp sae sweetly play'd, The trumpets loudly soun'; In every hall where in they stay'd, 55 Wi' their mirth did reboun'. Then out it speaks an auld skipper, An inbearing dog was hee,-- "Ye've stay'd ower lang in Noroway, Spending your king's monie." 60 Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens,-- "O how can a' this bee? I ha'e a bow o' guid red gowd Into my ship wi' mee. "But betide me well, betide me wae, 65 This day I'se leave the shore; And never spend my king's monie 'Mong Noroway dogs no more." Young Patrick hee is on the sea, And even on the faem, 70 Wi' five-an-fifty Scots lords' sons, That lang'd to bee at hame. They hadna sail'd upon the sea A day but barely three, Till loud and boistrous grew the wind, 75 And stormy grew the sea.