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!