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 ladies wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves For them they'll see nae mair. 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, With their goud kaims in their hair A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair! O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.