6 'Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:' 'O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. 7 'Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme.' 8 O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. 9 O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. 10 O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair. 11 Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit. B Herd's MSS., II, 27, I, 49. 1 The king he sits in Dumferling, Drinking the blude reid wine: O 'O where will I get a gude sailor, That'l sail the ships o mine?' O 2 Up then started a yallow-haird man, Just be the kings right knee: 'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That ever saild the see.' 3 Then the king he wrote a lang letter, And sealld it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, That was lyand at Leith Sands. 4 When Patrick lookd the letter on, He gae loud laughters three; But afore he wan to the end of it The teir blindit his ee. 5 'O wha is this has tald the king, Has tald the king o me? Gif I but wist the man it war, Hanged should he be. 6 'Come eat and drink, my merry men all, For our ships maun sail the morn; Bla'd wind, bla'd weet, bla'd sna or sleet, Our ships maun sail the morn.' 7 'Alake and alas now, good master, For I fear a deidly storm; For I saw the new moon late yestreen, And the auld moon in her arms.' 8 They had not saild upon the sea A league but merely three, When ugly, ugly were the jaws That rowd unto their knee. 9 They had not saild upon the sea A league but merely nine, When wind and weit and snaw and sleit Came blawing them behind. 10 'Then where will I get a pretty boy Will take my steer in hand, Till I go up to my tap-mast, And see gif I see dry land?' 11 'Here am I, a pretty boy That'l take your steir in hand, Till you go up to your tap-mast, And see an you see the land.' 12 Laith, laith were our Scottish lords To weit their coal-black shoon; But yet ere a' the play was playd, They wat their hats aboon. 13 Laith, laith war our Scottish lords To weit their coal-black hair; But yet ere a' the play was playd, They wat it every hair.