‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king’s daughter o’ 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 lee, ye lee, ye liars loud! Fu’ loud I hear ye lee. ‘For I have brought as much white monie As gane my men and me, And I hae brought a half-fou of gude red gould Out o’er the sea wi’ me. ‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’! Our good ship sails the morn.’ ‘Now ever alack, 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 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. The ankers brak, and the top-mast 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 tak the 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 tak the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast, But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’ He hadna gaen a step, a step A step but barely ane, When a boult 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 nae the sea come in.’ They fetched a web o’ the silken claith, Another o’ the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heeled shoon; But lang or a’ the play was played They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That floated on the faem; And mony was the gude lord’s son That never mair came hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A’ for the sake o’ their true loves,— For them they’ll see nae mair. O lang, lang may the ladyes 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. Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, ’Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet! HAME, HAME, HAME