13 'O whaur will I get a bonnie boy Will tak the steer in hand, Till I mount up to oor tapmast, To luik oot for dry land?' 14 'O here am I, a bonnie boy, Will tak the steer in hand, Till you mount up to oor tapmast, To luik oot for dry land.' 15 He's gaen up to the tapmast, To the tapmast sae hie; He luikit around on every side, But dry land he couldna see. 16 He luikit on his youngest son, An the tear blindit his ee; Says, I wish you had been in your mother's bowr, But there you'll never be. 17 'Pray for yoursels, my merrie young men, Pray for yoursels an me, For the first landen that we will land Will be in the boddam o the sea.' 18 Then up it raise the mermaiden, Wi the comb an glass in her hand: 'Here's a health to you, my merrie young men, For you never will see dry land.' 19 O laith, laith waur oor gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon; But lang, lang ere the play was played, Their yellow locks soomed aboun. 20 There was Saturday, an Sabbath day, An Monnonday at morn, That feather-beds an silken sheets Cam floatin to Kinghorn. 21 It's och, och owre to Aberdour, It's fifty faddoms deep; An there lie a' oor gude Scots lords, Wi Sir Patrick Spens at their feet. 22 O lang, lang will his lady sit, Wi the fan into her hand, Until she see her ain dear lord Come sailin to dry land. 23 O lang, lang will his lady sit, Wi the tear into her ee, Afore she see her ain dear lord Come hieing to Dundee. 24 O lang, lang will his lady sit, Wi the black shoon on her feet, Afore she see Sir Patrick Spens Come drivin up the street. K Communicated by Mr Murison, as taken down from recitation in Old Deer by Mrs Murison. * * * * * * * 1 It's when he read the letter ower A licht lauch then leuch he; But lang ere he wan the end o it The saut tear filled his ee. 2 'O woe be to the man,' he says, 'That's tauld the king o me; Altho he be my ain brither, Some ill death mat he dee! 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 'For be it weet, or be it win, My bonnie ship sails the morn.' * * * * * * * 4 'For late the streen I saw the new meen, Bit an the auld ane tee, An it fears me sair, my good maister, For a tempest in the sea.' 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Till up it rase the win an storm, An a tempest i the sea. 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It's throch an throu the comely cog There comes the green raw sea.