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THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 237

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!” calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
“Cusha! Cusha!” all along
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth;
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.

F. Ingelow.

238

THE SANDS OF DEE,

THE SANDS OF DEE.

“OH, Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee."
The western wind was wild and dark with foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o’er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair

A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea ?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee!

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea.
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee.

Charles Kingsley.

THREE FISHERS.

239

THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing out into the west,

Out into the west, as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam, as the tide went down;
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,

For those who will never come back to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

C. Kingsley.

240

THE STORM.

THE STORM.

(MEG BLANE.)
“LORD, hearken to me!

Save all poor souls at sea!
Thy breath is on their cheeks,-

Their cheeks are wan wi' fear;
Nae man speaks,

For wha could hear?
The wild white water screams,

The wind cries loud;
The fireflaught gleams

On tattered sail and shroud!
Under the red mast-light

The hissing waters slip;
Thick reeks the storm o' night

Round him that steers the ship,-
And his een are blind,

And he knows not where they run.
LORD, be kind!

Whistle back Thy wind,
For the sake of CHRIST Thy Son!”

... And as she prayed she knelt not on her knee, But, standing on the threshold, looked to Sea,

Where all was blackness and a watery roar, Save when the dead light, flickering far away,

Flash'd on the line of foam upon the shore, And showed the ribs of reef and surging bay!

There was no sign of life across the dark,

No piteous light from fishing-boat or bark, Albeit for such she hush'd her heart to pray.

THE STORM.

241

With tattered plaid wrapt tight around her form,

She stood a space, spat on by wind and rain, Then, sighing deep, and turning from the Storm,

She crept into her lonely hut again.

'Twas but a wooden hut under the height,

Shielded in the black shadow of the crag: One blow of such a wind as blew that night

Could rend so rude a dwelling like a rag.
There, gathering in the crannies overhead,
Down fell the spouting rain heavy as lead,

So that the old roof and the rafters thin
Dript desolately, looking on the surf,
While blacker rain-drops down the walls of turf

Splash'd momently on the mud-floor within.
There, swinging from the beam, an earthen lamp
Waved to the wind and glimmered in the damp,

And shining in the chamber's wretchedness,
Illumed the household things of the poor place,
And flicker'd faintly on the woman's face,
Sooted with rain, and on her dripping dress.

A miserable den wherein to dwell,
And yet she loved it well.

“O Mither, are ye there?A deep voice filled the dark; she thrill'd to hear;

With hard hand she pushed back her wild wet hair, And kissed him. “Whisht, my bairn, for Mither's near.” Then on the shuttle bed a figure thin

Sat rubbing sleepy eyes:
A bearded man, with heavy hanging chin,

And on his face a light not over-wise.
“Water!” he said; and deep his thirst was quelled
Out of the broken pitcher she upheld,
Modern Poets.

16

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