o Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The King's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud lauched he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

'O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the King of me,
To send us out at this time o' year
To sail upon the sea?

Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The King's daughter to Noroway,
'Tis we must bring her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monday 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 lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,
Fu' loud I hear ye lie!

For I brought as mickle white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud
Out-o'er the sea wi' me.

Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Now, ever alake, 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.

'O where will I get a gude sailor
To tak' my helm in hand,
Till I gae up to the tall topmast
To see if I can spy land?'

'O here am I, a sailor gude,
To tak' the helm in hand,
Till you gae up to the tall topmast;
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And wap them into our ship's side,
And letna the sea come in.'

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,
Anither o' the twine,
And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,
But still the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their milk-white hands;
But lang ere a' the play was ower
They wat their gowden bands.

O laith, la