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116
THE STORY OF THE
And the eighth man, my mate,
Felled in the death-mead.

Father and mother,
And four brothers,
On the wide sea
The winds and death played with;
The billows beat
On the bulwark boards.

Alone must I sing o’er them,
Alone must I array them,
Alone must my hands deal with
Their departing;
And all this was
In one season’s wearing,
And none was left
For love or solace.

Then was I bound
A prey of the battle,
When that same season
Wore to its ending;
As a tiring may
Must I bind the shoon
Of the duke’s high dame,
Every day at dawning.

From her jealous hate
Gat I heavy mocking,
Cruel lashes
She laid upon me,