O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Michael Drayton

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I hear a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free

The world of waters is our home,

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free -
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

- Allan Cunningham

SIR PATRICK SPENS

The King sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
"O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper,
To sail this gude ship of mine?"

Then up an' spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee;
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

The King has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The King's daughter to Noroway,
It's thou maun tak' her hame."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he,

The neist line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blindit his e'e.

"O wha is this hae dune this deed,

And tauld the King o' me,

To send us out this time o' year
To sail upon the sea?

"Be 't wind, be 't weet, be 't hail, be 't sleet, Our ship maun sail the faem,

The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we maun tak' her hame."

They hoised their sails o' a Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may;

And they hae landed in Noroway

Upon the Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week,

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway

Began aloud to say,

"Ye Scottismen spend a' our King's gowd,

And a' our Queenis fee.'

"Ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud,

Fu' loud I hear ye lee.

"For I brought as mickle o' white monie,

As gane my men and me,

And I brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd
Out owre the sea wi' me.

"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', Our gude ship sails the morn."

"Now ever alack, 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, Maister,
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 ropes they brak, 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 whaur sall I get a sailor gude
Will tak' the helm in hand,
Till I win up to the tall topmast,
And see if I can spy land?"

"O it's here am I, a sailor gude,
Will tak' the helm in hand,
Till ye win up to the tall topmast,
But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.”

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side,
And the saut sea it cam' in.

"Gae, fetch a web of the silken claith,

Anither o' the twine,

And wap them into the gude ship's side,
And leet na the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Anither o' the twine,

And they wapp'd them into that gude ship's side, But aye the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heeled shoon, But lang or a' the play was played They wat their hats abune.

And laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To weet their milk-white hands,
But lang or a' the play was played
They wat their gouden bands.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Or ever they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the land.

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll na'er see mair.

Half owre, half owre from Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathom deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.