the world. When people have come together as New Yorkers,，
"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 fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam in.
O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bed That flattered on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame.
The ladies 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 ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their gold combs in their hair, Awaiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair.
O forty miles off Aberdeen 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
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