So the King writes a letter bidding Sir Patrick make ready.  At first he is pleased to get a letter from the King, but when he has read what is in it his face grows sad and angry too.

“Who has done me this evil deed?” he cries, “to send me out to sea in such weather?”

Sir Patrick is very unwilling to go.  But the King has commanded, so he and his men set forth.  A great storm comes upon them and the ship is wrecked.  All the men are drowned, and the ladies who sit at home waiting their husbands’ return wait in vain.

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.’

    The king has written a braid letter,
        And signed 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 wha is this has done this deed,
        This ill deed don to me,
    To send me out this time o’ the yeir,
        To sail 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.’

    O, our Scots nobles wer richt laith
        To weet their cork-heild schoone;
    Bot lang owre a’ the play wer played
        Thair hats they swam aboone.

    O lang, lang, may their ladies sit,
        Wi their fans into their hand,
    Or eir they see Sir Patrick Spence
        Cum sailing to the land.

    O lang, lang, may the ladies stand,
        Wi their gold kaims in their hair,
    Waiting for their ain deir lords,
        For they’ll see them na mair.

    Haf ower, haf ower to Aberdour,
        It’s fiftie fadom deip,
    And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence. 
        Wi the Scots lords at his feit.” 
And now, just to end this chapter, let me give you one more poem.  It is the earliest English song that is known.  It is a spring song, and it is so full of the sunny green of fresh young leaves, and of all the sights and sounds of early summer, that I think you will like it.

    “Summer is a-coming in,
    Loud sing cuckoo;
    Groweth seed and bloweth mead,
    And springeth the wood new,
        Sing cuckoo!