Page:Poems Cook.djvu/326

It does not tell of anchor chains,
 Blending with the "Yo, heave ho!"
'Tis my death-dirge they are singing,
And thus the lightsome troll is ringing.

 

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The Vraie the Vraie! oh! the Vraie shall be
 The theme of our chanting mirth;
For we come to gather the grass of the sea,
 To quicken the grain of the earth.
That grass it groweth where no man moweth;
 All thick, and rich, and strong:
And it meeteth our hand on the desolate strand,
 Ready for rake and prong.
So gather and carry; for oft we need
The nurturing help of the good Sea-weed.

The Vraie! the Vraie! come, take a farewell
 Of your boundless and billowy home;
No more will you dive in the fathomless cell,
 Or leap in the sparkling foam.
Far from the petrel, the gannet, and grebe,
 Thou shalt be scatter'd abroad;
And carefully strewn on the mountain glebe,
 To add to the harvest hoard.
The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed;
And the corn must be help'd by the good Sea-weed.

The Vraie! the Vraie! pile it on to the fire,
 Let it crackle and smoke in the wind;
And a smouldering heap of treasure we'll keep
 In the ashes it leaveth behind.
On to the furrow, on to the field;
 Dust to dust is the claim;
'Tis what the prince and pilgrim yield,
 And the Sea-weed giveth the same.
The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed;
But he'll mingle at last with the good Sea-weed.

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