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Updated: August 5, 2024
And right as the schip men taken here avys here, and governe hem be the lode sterre, right so don schip men bezonde the parties, be the sterre of the southe, the whiche sterre apperethe not to us. And this sterre, that is toward the north, that wee clepen the lode sterre, ne apperethe not to hem. For whiche cause, men may wel perceyve, that the lond and the see ben of rownde schapp and forme.
There are many versions of this ballad, but I give you here one of the shortest and perhaps the most beautiful. "The king sits in Dumferling toune Drinking the blude reid wine: 'O whar will I get a guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine? Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the king's richt kne: 'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the se.
'Mak hast, mak hast, my merry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne. 'Oh, 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 her arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme.
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