Margaret, Maid of Norway, the daughter of Alexander III and Margaret, by King Erik of Norway, was about seven when, on her way to Scotland to marry Prince Edward of England, her ship sank off Orkney. There’s a strong note of feudal resentment in the popular ballad that marks the occasion, whose grief is not for the young woman but for the noblemen sent to fetch her, whose fate was bound up with hers.
‘Sir Patrick Spens’
The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper,
To sail this new ship of mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King’s right knee, –
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea.’ –
Our King has written a braid letter,
And seal’d it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The King’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis thou maun bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud loud laughed he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.
‘O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the King o’ me,
To send us out, at this time of year,
To sail upon the sea?
‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The King’s daughter of Noroway,
’Tis we must fetch her hame.’ –
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway,
Upon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,
In Noroway, but twae,
When that the lords o’ Noroway
Began aloud to say, –
‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our King’s gowd,
And a’ our Queenis fee.’–
‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
Fu’ loud I hear ye lie;
‘For I brought as much white monie
As gane my men and me,
And I brought a half-fou of gude red gowd,
Out o’er the sea wi’ me.
‘Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a’.
Our gude ship sails the morn.’ –
‘Now ever alake, 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, master,
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 ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,
It was sic a deadly storm;
And the waves cam o’er the broken ship,
Till a’ her sides were torn.
‘O where will I get a gude sailor,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast,
To see if I can spy land?’ –
‘O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’ –
He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.
‘Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And let nae the sea come in.’ –
They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea cam in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To weet their cork-heel’d shoon!
But lang or a’ the play was play’d
They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bed,
That flatter’d on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son,
That never mair cam hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair,
A’ for the sake of their true loves;
For them they’ll see nae mair.
O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit,
We’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit,
With their gowd kaims in their hair,
A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they’ll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.