43.

1

170

"Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake,
And let scharpe arowes flee;
Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,1
And well quyt it schall bee.

44. "Every man thynke on hys trewe-love,
And marke hym to the Trenite;
For to God I make myne avowe
Thys day wyll I not flee."

45. The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes,
Hys standerde stood on hye,
That every man myght full well knowe;
By syde stode starrës thre.

180 46. The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,2 For soth as I yow sayne,

3

The lucettes and the cressawntes both;
The Skottes faught them agayne.

47. Upon Sent Androwe lowde can they crye, And thrysse they schowte on hyght,* And syne merked them one owr Ynglysshe men,

As I have tolde yow ryght.

"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, That sails upon the se."

The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauchlauched he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don 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 sails the morne :
"O say na sae, my master deir,

For I feir a deadlie storme.

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

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith 2
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre3 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 5 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 lords at his feit.