Poetry Archives

‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’!
  Our gude 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 sail’d 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 topmast lap,
  It was sic a deadly storm:
And the waves cam owre the broken ship
  Till a’ her sides were torn.

‘Go 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 fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,
  Another o’ the twine,
And they wapp’d 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-heel’d shoon;
But lang or a’ the play was play’d
  They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed
  That flatter’d on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son
  That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies 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
  Wi’ their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
  For them they’ll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
  ’Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
  Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!