VII. SIR PATRICK SPENCE,
A Scottish Ballad
[_]
—is given from two MS copies transmitted from Scotland.
In what age the hero of this ballad lived, or when
this fatal expedition happened that proved so destructive to the
Scots nobles, I have not been able to discover; yet am of
opinion that their catastrophe is not altogether without
foundation in history, though it has escaped my own researches.
In the infancy of navigation, such as used the
northern seas, were very liable to shipwreck in the wintry
months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of James
the III, (a law which was frequently repeated afterwards)
“That there be na schip frauched out of the realm with
any staple gudes, fra the feast of Simons day and Jude,
unto the feast of the purification our Lady called Candelmess.”
Jam. III. Parlt. 2. Ch. 15.
In some modern copies, instead of Patrick Spence hath been
substituted the name of Sir Andrew Wood, a famous Scottish
admiral who flourished in the time of our Edw. IV. but whose
story hath nothing in common with this of the ballad. As
Wood was the most noted warrior of Scotland, it is probable
that, like the Theban Hercules, he hath engrossed the renown
of other heroes.
The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
O quhar will I get guid sailòr,
To sail this schip of mine?
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailòr,
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 lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.
O quha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o'the zeir,
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 mastèr,
That we will com 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 thair 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.
Have owre, have owre to Aberdour
,
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
