The lord sits in a High Marches town,
Drinking the blood red wine
"0h where will I get a steely skipper,
To sail this ship of mine?"

Then up and spoke an elder knight,
Sat at the lord's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best captain,
That ever sailed the sea"

Our lord wrote an urgent plea,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Who was walking on the strand.

"To Ussura, to Ussura,
To Ussura over the foam;
My young daughter is in Ussura,
It's your task to bring her home."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
Came near to make him cry;
With the next line that Sir Patrick read,
A tear did blind his eye.

"Oh who is this that has done this deed,
And told the lord of me,
To send us out at this time of year
To sail the churning sea?"

"Between the wind, the hail and sleet,
Our ship will sail the foam;
The lord's daughter is in Ussura,
And my men will bring her home."

"My boys will sail this coming morn,
With all the speed that they can eke;
They'll landed in cold Ussura
In little more than a week."

"Prepare the men, my boson dear,
Our good ship sails the morn"
"But the skies are dark, my master sir,
And I fear a deadly storm."

"I saw the new moon late yesterday,
With the old moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
That we will come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the light grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And angry grew the sea.

The anchors broke, and the topmasts cracked,
'Twas such a deadly storm
And the waves came over the broken ship,
Till all her sides were torn.

"Go fetch a swath of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wrap them to our good ship's side,
That the salt sea comes not in!"

They fetched a swath of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wrapped them to the good ship's side,
But still the sea came in!

O loath, loath were our goodly men,
To wet their cork-heeled shoes;
But afore too long, the ship did sink
And they were cast into the blue.

Many were the good sailors then,
That floundered in the foam;
And many were the good sons lost,
To never more come home!

The ladies wrung their fingers white,
And paced upon the shore,
For the sake of their true loves,
but them they'll see no more!

Oh long, long may the ladies sit,
With their fans held in their hands,
But they'll never see Sir Patrick Spence
Come sailing to the strand!

O long, long will the maidens sit,
With their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their own dear loves,
but they'll see them no more there!

Some forty miles from Marches green,
And fifty fathoms deep,
There lies good Sir Patrick Spence,
With many good men at his feet!

The lord now sits with brooding frown,
And mourns for his long lost daughter
And the good men that he sent out to sea
Now lost beneath the water.

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