Sir Patrick Spens

Sir Patrick Spens文本歌词

作词 : Traditional

作曲 : Simpson Martin Stewart

Oh the king sits in Dunfermline town

A-drinking the blood-red wine,

Says, \"Where will I get me a brave young skipper

Sail this ship of mine?\"

And up and spoke an old, old man,

Who sat at the king's right knee.

He says, \"Patrick Spens is the very best sailor

Who ever did sail on the sea.\"

So the king he has written him a long, long letter

Sealed it with his hand,

And he sent it along to Patrick Spens

Who was walking down on the sand.

And the very first line that Patrick read

So loud, so loud laughed he,

And the very next line that Patrick read

Down he fell to his knee.

\"Oh, who is this, who has done this deed

Telling the king on me,

For to send us out this time of the year

To sail on the salt, salt sea?\"

\"To Norway, to far Norway,

To Norway over the foam.

It is the king's daughter of far Norway

And we must bring her home.\"

Now they set sail with all good speed

On a Monday in the morn,

And they have arrived far over the sea

On a Wednesday in the eve.

And they'd not been in far Norway

A week but barely three,

When all those lords of far Norway

Began out aloud for to say:

\"Oh, you Scots foreigners spend our king's gold,

Swallow up our money.\"

\"Oh, weary weary the tongue that lies,

See how it lies on thee.\"

\"Make ready, ready my good men all,

The little ship sails in the morn.

Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Be it fair or deadly storm.\"

But up and spoke our own weatherman,

\"I fear we'll all be drowned.

For I saw the new moon late last night,

The old moon in her arm.\"

And they'd not sailed a league and a league,

A league but barely three

When through and through the little ship's side

spied the green-walled sea.

\"Oh, where will I get me a brave young boy,

Take my helm in hand,

While I climb up to the tall topmast,

See can I spy land.\"

And he'd not gone a step and a step,

A step but barely one,

When the whirling winds and the ugly jaws

Came a-driving to their shin.

\"Oh, fetch me a web of the silken cloth,

Another web of the twine,

And lay them around our little ship's side

Let not the sea come in.\"

And they got a web of the silken cloth,

Another web of the twine,

And they laid them around the little ship's side,

Still the sea come in.

Oh, the anchor snapped, the topmast cracked,

It was a deadly storm.

And the whirling winds and the ugly jaws

Came a-driving to their chin.

And there came a gale from the north-north-east,

So loud, so loud it weep,

It cried, \"Patrick Spens and all of his men

Are drowning in the deep.\"

And loath, loath were the good Scots lords

To wet their shining shoen,

But long and ere this day was done

Their hats were soaking through.

And many were the fine feather bed

Flattering over the foam,

And many were the good lords' sons

Never, never more come home.

And long, long will the ladies sit,

Their gold combs in their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come a-sailing to dry land.

Oh, it's east by north from Aberdour,

It's fifty fathom deep.

And it's there it lies Patrick Spens,

The Scots lords at his feet.

Sir Patrick SpensLRC歌词

作词 : Traditional

作曲 : Simpson Martin Stewart

Oh the king sits in Dunfermline town

A-drinking the blood-red wine,

Says, \"Where will I get me a brave young skipper

Sail this ship of mine?\"

And up and spoke an old, old man,

Who sat at the king's right knee.

He says, \"Patrick Spens is the very best sailor

Who ever did sail on the sea.\"

So the king he has written him a long, long letter

Sealed it with his hand,

And he sent it along to Patrick Spens

Who was walking down on the sand.

And the very first line that Patrick read

So loud, so loud laughed he,

And the very next line that Patrick read

Down he fell to his knee.

\"Oh, who is this, who has done this deed

Telling the king on me,

For to send us out this time of the year

To sail on the salt, salt sea?\"

\"To Norway, to far Norway,

To Norway over the foam.

It is the king's daughter of far Norway

And we must bring her home.\"

Now they set sail with all good speed

On a Monday in the morn,

And they have arrived far over the sea

On a Wednesday in the eve.

And they'd not been in far Norway

A week but barely three,

When all those lords of far Norway

Began out aloud for to say:

\"Oh, you Scots foreigners spend our king's gold,

Swallow up our money.\"

\"Oh, weary weary the tongue that lies,

See how it lies on thee.\"

\"Make ready, ready my good men all,

The little ship sails in the morn.

Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Be it fair or deadly storm.\"

But up and spoke our own weatherman,

\"I fear we'll all be drowned.

For I saw the new moon late last night,

The old moon in her arm.\"

And they'd not sailed a league and a league,

A league but barely three

When through and through the little ship's side

[They?] spied the green-walled sea.

\"Oh, where will I get me a brave young boy,

Take my helm in hand,

While I climb up to the tall topmast,

See can I spy land.\"

And he'd not gone a step and a step,

A step but barely one,

When the whirling winds and the ugly jaws

Came a-driving to their shin.

\"Oh, fetch me a web of the silken cloth,

Another web of the twine,

And lay them around our little ship's side

Let not the sea come in.\"

And they got a web of the silken cloth,

Another web of the twine,

And they laid them around the little ship's side,

Still the sea come in.

Oh, the anchor snapped, the topmast cracked,

It was a deadly storm.

And the whirling winds and the ugly jaws

Came a-driving to their chin.

And there came a gale from the north-north-east,

So loud, so loud it weep,

It cried, \"Patrick Spens and all of his men

Are drowning in the deep.\"

And loath, loath were the good Scots lords

To wet their shining shoen,

But long and ere this day was done

Their hats were soaking through.

And many were the fine feather bed

Flattering over the foam,

And many were the good lords' sons

Never, never more come home.

And long, long will the ladies sit,

Their gold combs in their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come a-sailing to dry land.

Oh, it's east by north from Aberdour,

It's fifty fathom deep.

And it's there it lies Patrick Spens,

The Scots lords at his feet.