THE SCOTIAD - damowords

The Maid of NorwayOf all the babes the king would bareBut one survived to be his heir& she was barely three years old,Far overseas in Norway cold,& now the Scots must fetch her hameA ship despatch’d across the faemSteer’d by their captain, said to beThe best sailor upon the sea,Sir Patrick Spence to Oslo thenSail’d with his crew of merry menFinding wee Margaret on the strandEscorted by a minstrel bandThen set a sea-way back to FifeBack to his bairns & buxom wifeBut barely nine leagues ‘neath them passedWhen lightning sunder’d his topmast& in blew sic a deadly stormFierce Kelpies in the water formDragging sailors drowning underTo the sound of gowling thunder,Horse-waves would swallow Scotland’s hopeWith sail & topmast, plank & rope,Whose little body, weeks or more,Wash’d up on Orkney’s rocky shore,This was national tragedyFruit failing upon every tree,The state in great perplexity,Searching for Christ's sweet remedy!Sir Patrick Spence