THE
HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
(1571.)
The old mayor climb'd the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
'Pull, if ye never pull'd before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
'Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe, "The Brides of Enderby."'
The ringers ran by two, by three;
'Pull, if ye never pull'd before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
'Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe, "The Brides of Enderby."'
Men say it was a stolen tyde—
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flight of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall.
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was naught of strange, beside
The flight of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
