Gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde,
For the favour thou hast me showne;
If ever thou comest to merry Tamwòrth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.
[SIR PATRICK SPENS]
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
To sail this schip of mine.
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailòr,
That sails upon the se.
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o' the zeir,
To sail upon the se.
Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne,
O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.