"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping downe; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring The Brides of Enderby?'" I looked without, and lo! my sonne (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath "The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" strait he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play With that he cried and beat his breast; A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout- So farre, so fast the eygre drave, Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet, Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high A lurid mark and dread to see; And awesome bells they were to mee, They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I-my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, And did'st thou visit him no more? Thou did'st, thou did'st, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more From the meads where melick groweth, I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Stand beside the sobbing river, Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. (THOMAS HOOD.) With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, When woman has never a soul to save "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh, men, with sisters dear! Oh, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. "But why do I talk of Death? Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shatter'd roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work, In the dull December light, And work-work-work, When the weather is warm and bright- The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, |