Lang, lang may their ladies stand

[quillori]

Sir Patrick Spens
Anon

The king sits in Dumferling toune,
      Drinking the blude-reid wine:
‘O whar will I get a guid sailor,
      To sail this schip of mine?’

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
      Sat at the king's richt kne:
‘Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
      That sails upon the se.’

The king has written a braid letter,
      And signd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
      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 wha is this has don this deid,
      This ill deid done to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
      To sail upon the se!

‘Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,
      Our guid schip sais the morne:’
‘O say na sae, my master deir,
      For I feir a deadlie storme,

‘Late yestreen I saw the new moone,
      Wi the auld moon in hir arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
      That we will cum to harme.’

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
      To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd
      Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
      Wi thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
      Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
      Wi thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
      For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
      It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
      Wi the Scots lards at his feit.