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A lady dwelt in that rich town,

The fairest in all the land;

She walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand.

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,

Her roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was fed.

For she was
proud of her father's ships,
As she watched them gayly pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw herself in the glass.

"Now come," she said to the captains ten,
Who were ready to put to sea,

"Ye are all my men and my father's men,
And what will ye do for me?"

"Go north and south, go east and west,
And get me gifts," she said.
"And he who bringeth me home the best,
With that man will I wed."

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So they all fared forth, and sought with care

In

many a famous mart,

For satins and silks and jewels rare,

To win that lady's heart.

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She looked at them all with never a thought, And careless put them by;

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"I am not fain of the things ye brought, Enough of these have I."

The last that came was the head of the fleet,

His name was Jan Borel;

He bent his knee at the lady's feet,

In truth he loved her well.

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"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,

A shipful of Danzig corn!"

She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes filled with scorn.

"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,

A loon thou art," she said. "Am I a starving beggar girl? Shall I ever lack for bread?

"Go empty all thy sacks of grain

Into the nearest sea,

And never show thy face again

To make a mock of me."

Young Jan Borel, he answered naught,

But in the harbor cast

The sacks of golden corn he brought,
And groaned when fell the last.

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;

He passed the Helder in a gale
And came again no more.

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But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,

To sow the harbor of the town

With a wicked growth of weed.

The roots were thick and the silt and sand

Were gathered day by day,

ill not a furlong out from land

A shoal had barred the way.

The Stävoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in,
The boats lay rotting at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the bin.

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,

The town in ruin stood,
The lady's velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food.

Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride,

She walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she died.

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,
When the midnight moon shines free,
A woman walks in a velvet gown

And scatters corn in the sea.

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Henry van Dyke.

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THE EARL O' QUARTERDECK*

A New Old Ballad

THE wind it blew, and the ship it flew;
And it was "Hey for hame!

And ho for hame!" But the skipper cried,
"Haud her oot o'er the saut sea faem."

Then up and spoke the King himsel':

"Haud on for Dunfermline!"

Quo the skipper, "Ye're king upon' the land—

I'm king upo' the brine."

And he took the helm intil his hand,

And he steered the ship sae free;

Wi' the wind astarn, he crowded sail,
And stood right out to sea.

Quo the king, "There's treason in this I vow;

This is something underhand!

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'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, "Yer grace forgets Ye are king but o' the land!"

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*Used by permission of Dr. Greville Macdonald and of the publishers, Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., Ltd.

And still he held to the open sea;
And the east-wind sank behind;
And the west had a bitter word to say,
Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind.

And he turned her head into the north.
Said the king: "Gar fling him o'er."
Quo the fearless skipper: "It's a' ye're worth!
Ye'll ne'er see Scotland more."

The king crept down the cabin-stair,
To drink the gude French wine.
And up she came, his daughter fair,
And luikit ower the brine.

She turned her face to the drivin' hail,
To the hail but and the weet;
Her snood it brak, and, as lang's hersel',
Her hair drave out i' the sleet.

She turned her face frae the drivin' win'-
"What's that ahead?" quo she.

The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win',
And he drove the helm a-lee.

"Put to yer hand, my lady fair!

Put to yer hand," quo he:

"Gin she dinna face the win' the mair,

It's the waur for you and me."

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For the skipper kenned that strength is strength

Whether woman's or man's at last.

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