12 'Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a', Our gude ship sails the morn:' 'Now, ever alake! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! 13 '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.' 14 They hadna 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. 15 The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm, And the waves came oer the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. 16 'O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall topmast, To see if I can spy land?' 17 'O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast; But I fear you'll neer spy land.' 18 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. 19 'Gae fetch a web o the silken claith, Another o the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in.' 20 They fetched a web o the silken claith, Another o the twine, And they wapped them roun that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. 21 O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeld shoon; But lang or a' the play was playd, They wat their hats aboon. 22 And mony was the feather-bed That flattered on the faem, And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. 23 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. 24 O lang, lang may the ladyes sit, Wi their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand. 25 And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see na mair. 26 O forty miles off Aberdeen 'T is fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi the Scots lords at his feet. I Buchan's Ballads of the North of Scotland, I, 1; Motherwell's MS., p. 550. 1 The king sits in Dunfermline town, A-drinking at the wine; Says, Where will I get a good skipper, Will sail the saut seas fine? 2 Out it speaks an eldren knight Amang the companie: 'Young Patrick Spens is the best skipper That ever saild the sea.' 3 The king he wrote a braid letter, And seald it wi his ring; Says, Ye'll gie that to Patrick Spens, See if ye can him find.