The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. "O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame." They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; 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 Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie. "For I brought as much white monie, As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me. "Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly 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 had not sailed 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 topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. "O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land?" "O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let na the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another of the twine, And wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed, That flattered on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair.