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SIR PATRICK SPENS. |
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" O where will I get a little wee boy
Will tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to my tapmast,
And see for some dry land ? " 80
He hadna gane to his tapmast
A step but barely three; Ere thro' and thro' the bonny ship's side,
He saw the green haw sea.
" There are five-an-fifty feather beds a
Well packed iii ae room; And ye'll get as muckle guid canvas
As wrap the ship a' roun';
" Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not,
And mak' her hale and soun'." 90
But ere he had the word well spoke The bonny ship was down.
O laith, laith were our guid lords' sons
To weet their milk-white hands; But lang ere a' the play was ower K
They wat their gowden bands.
O laith, laith were our Scots lords' sons
To weet their coal-black shoon ; But lang ere a' the play was ower
They wat their hats aboon. 100
It's even ower by Aberdour
It's fifty fathoms deep, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens,
And a's men at his feet. |
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