“The olde sea wall,” he cried, “is downe,
      The rising tide comes on apace,
    And boats adrift in yonder towne
      Go sailing uppe the market-place.” 
    He shook as one that looks on death: 
   “God save you, mother!” straight he saith
   “Where is my wife, Elizabeth?”

   “Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way
      With her two bairns I marked her long;
    And ere yon bells beganne to play
      Afar I heard her milking song.” 
    He looked across the grassy lea,
    To right, to left, “Ho, Enderby!”
    They rang “The Brides of Enderby!”

    With that he cried and beat his breast;
      For, lo! along the river’s bed
    A mighty eygre rear’d his crest,
      And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
    It swept with thunderous noises loud;
    Shap’d like a curling snow-white cloud,
    Or like a demon in a shroud.

    And rearing Lindis backward press’d
      Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
    Then madly at the eygre’s breast
      Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
    Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout—­
    Then beaten foam flew round about—­
    Then all the mighty floods were out.

    So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
      The heart had hardly time to beat
    Before a shallow seething wave
      Sobb’d in the grasses at oure feet: 
    The feet had hardly time to flee
    Before it brake against the knee,
    And all the world was in the sea.

    Upon the roofe we sate that night,
      The noise of bells went sweeping by;
    I mark’d the lofty beacon light
      Stream from the church tower, red and high—­
    A lurid mark and dread to see;
    And awsome bells they were to mee,
    That in the dark rang “Enderby.”

    They rang the sailor lads to guide
      From roofe to roofe who fearless row’d;
    And I—­my sonne was at my side,
      And yet the ruddy beacon glow’d: 
    And yet he moan’d beneath his breath,
   “O come in life, or come in death! 
    O lost! my love, Elizabeth.”

    And didst thou visit him no more? 
      Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare
    The waters laid thee at his doore,
      Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
    Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
    The lifted sun shone on thy face,
    Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

    That flow strew’d wrecks about the grass,
      That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
    A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 
      To manye more than myne and mee;
    But each will mourn his own (she saith);
    And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath
    Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.