Set in the Baltic Sea: And the waves have spread The sandy bed That holds my Love from me.

Unknown

THE FISHER'S WIDOW

The boats go out and the boats come in Under the wintry sky; And the rain and foam are white in the wind, And the white gulls cry.

She sees the sea when the wind is wild Swept by a windy rain; And her heart's a-weary of sea and land As the long days wane.

She sees the torn sails fly in the foam, Broad on the sky-line gray; And the boats go out and the boats come in, But there's one away.

Arthur Symons [1865-

CALLER HERRIN'

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonny fish and halesome farin'; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows?

Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth!

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're no brought here without brave darin'; Buy my caller herrin', Hauled through wind and rain.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When the creel o' herrin' pa.s.ses, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

Caller herrin's no got lightly:-- Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin'

Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?"

Neebor wives! now tent my tellin': When the bonny fish ye're sellin', At ae word be, in ye're dealin'!

Truth will stand, when a' thing's failin', Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]

HANNAH BINDING SHOES

Poor lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes: Faded, wrinkled, Sitting, st.i.tching, in a mournful muse.

Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree;-- Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbor Pa.s.sing, nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, "Is there from the fishers any news?"

Oh, her heart's adrift with one On an endless voyage gone;-- Night and morning, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues.

May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so!

For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is pa.s.sing; 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes: Hannah shudders, For the mild south-wester mischief brews.

Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped; Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November: Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoa.r.s.ely: "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben?"

Old with watching, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters Bleak and drear the ragged sh.o.r.e she views.

Twenty seasons:-- Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-- Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

THE SAILOR A Romaic Ballad

Thou that hast a daughter For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband With snow upon his head; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea!

How luckless is the sailor When sick and like to die; He sees no tender mother, No sweetheart standing by.

Only the captain speaks to him,-- Stand up, stand up, young man, And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can.

Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up"; I say to thee, take hold, Lift me a little from the deck, My hands and feet are cold.

And let my head, I pray thee, With handkerchiefs be bound; There, take my love's gold handkerchief, And tie it tightly round.

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; See, where these mountains meet-- The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet: Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe Within the rocky cleft; The little anchor on the right, The great one on the left.

And now to thee, O captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray;-- But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surly sea-beach, Deep down into the sand.

For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear; And at hauling of the anchor The yo-ho and the cheer,-- Farewell, my love, for to thy bay I never more may steer!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE