The king’s daughter needed rescue.
One problem: It was a suicide mission.
The Scots remember everything in this brooding ballad.
I offer my translation.
Note: Reading this will feel like washing the dishes.
You’ll have a warm, fuzzy feeling when the work is done.
And softer hands, guaranteed.
Sir Patrick Spens: A Ballad
The king sits in Dumferlin town
Drinking the blood-red wine:
Oh where will I get a good sailor
To sail this ship of mine?
Translation: Alcoholic king in a church says “I need a brave heart, is there any who loves me with all of his?”
Up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea.
Translation: A wise guy says “I know of one, and worthy is the man.”
The king has written a broad letter
And signed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.
Translation: The king’s word goes through all the earth, and does not return empty.
To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the foam,
The king’s daughter to Norway,
’Tis thou maun to bring her home.
Translation: “My beloved is lost, only in you may she be found.”
The first line that Sir Patrick read
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
A tear blinded his eye.
Translation: For the joy set before him, her savior would suffer.
Make haste, make haste, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn.
Oh say not so, my master dear,
For I fear a deadly storm.
Translation: His followers said “Master, do you not care that we will perish?”
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon
With the old moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
That we will come to harm.
Translation: They guessed “we will be killed all day long.”
They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the air grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And growly grew the sea.
Translation: They guessed right.
Oh who is this has done this deed,
This ill deed done to me,
To send me out this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?
Translation: “My king, why have you forsaken me?”
Oh our Scots nobles were right loth
To wet their cork-heeled shoon,
But long ere all the play were played
Their hats they swam aboon.
Translation: Hats float. Humans don’t.
Half o’er, half o’er to Aberdour
It’s fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
With the Scots lords at his feet.
Translation: And darkness was over the face of the deep.
Some say, fifty fathoms is the end of the story.
Others say, it’s only half o’er.
What do you say?
