Anaïs Mitchell – Sir Patrick Spens (Guitar)

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The king sits in Dumferling town

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Drinking the blood-red wine

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"Where can I get a good Captian

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To sail this ship of mine?"

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Then up and spoke a sailor boy

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Sitting at the king's right knee

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"Sir Patrick Spens is the best Captain

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That ever sailed to sea"

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The king he wrote a broad letter

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And he sealed it with his hand

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And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens

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Walking out on the strand

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To Norway, to Norway, to Norway

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To Norway or the foam

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With all my lords and finery

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To bring my new bride home

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The first line that Sir Patrick read

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He gave a weary sigh

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The next line that Sir Patrick read

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A salt tear blinds his eye

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"Oh, who is it, oh, who is it

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Who told the king of me

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To set us out this time of year

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To sail across the sea?

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But rest you well, my good men all

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Our ship must sail the morn

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With four and twenty noble lords

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Dressed up in silk so fine

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And four and twenty feather beds

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To lay their heads upon

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Away, away, we'll all away

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To bring the king's bride home"

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"I fear, I fear, My captain dear

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I fear we'll come to harm

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Last night I saw the new moon clear

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The old moon in her arm."

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"Oh be it fair, or be it foul

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Or be it deadly storm

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Oh, blow the wind where'er it will

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Our ship must sail the morn"

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They hadn't sailed a day, a day

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A day but only one

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When loud and boisterous blew the wind

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And made the good ship moan

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They hadn't sailed a day, a day

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A day but only three

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When oh, the waves came o'er the side

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And rolled around their knees

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They hadn't sailed a league, a league

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A league but only five

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When the anchor broke and the sails were torn

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And the ship began to rive

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They hadn't sailed a league, a league

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A league but only nine

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When oh, the waves came o'er the side

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Driving to their chins

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"Who will climb the top mast high

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While I take helm in hand?

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Who will climb the top mast high

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To see if there be dry land?"

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"No shore, no shore, my Captain dear

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I haven't seen dry land

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But I have seen a lady fair

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With a comb and a glass in her hand"

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"Come down, come down, you sailor boy

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I think you tarry long

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The salt sea's in at my coat neck

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And out at my left arm

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Come down, come down, you sailor boy

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Tis here that we must die

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Our ship is torn at every side

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And now the sea comes in"

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Loathe, loathe were those noble lords

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To wet their high-heeled shoes

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But long before the day was o'er

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Their hats, they swam above

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And many were the feathered beds

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That fluttered on the foam

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And many were those noble lords

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Who never did come home

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It's fifty miles shore to shore

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And fifty fathoms deep

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And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens

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The lords all at his feet

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Long, long, may his lady look

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With a lantern in her hand

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Before she sees Sir Patrick Spens

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Come sailing home again