The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud laughed he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

“O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o me,
To send us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?”

“Be it wind, be it weet, be it hall, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis we must fetch her hame.”

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway,
Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords o Noroway
Began aloud to say: 

“Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,
And a’ our queenis fee.” 
“Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!

“For I brought as much white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red goud,
Out o’er the sea wi’ me.

“Make ready, make ready, my merry-men a’! 
Our gude ship sails the morn.” 
“Now ever alake, 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 top-masts 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 take my 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 take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast
But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.”

He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout 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 na the sea come in.”

They fetchd a web o the silken claith,
Another o the twine,
And they wapped them roun that gude ship’s side
But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet 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 fluttered on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.

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!