The ladyes wrang their fingers white— The maidens tore their hair; A’ for the sake of their true loves— For them they’ll see na 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, Wi’ the goud kaims in their hair, A’ waiting for their ain dear loves— For them they’ll see na mair.
O forty miles off Aberdour, ’Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.
[ LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY]
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.