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Show LA BELLE MARIE. The maid looked out on the wind-swept sea Where the spoondrlft drove on the breath of the gale. Oh, fair as a dusk red rose was she, As she sought her lover's sail; For she was the pride of the Norman coast, The flower of Normandie, Who watched for the absent fisher host! Alas, La Belle Marie! La Belle Marie La Bolle Mario, there are many prayers in the litany: There's one for the wedded and one for the free, and one for the brave men lost at sea. Oh! gray are your oyos as the storm-swept lea, but where are your roses, Belle Marie? Three nights wore on and three dawns broko dun, And the maid still watched for a sign of tho fleet. Alas for the wedding gown begun And tho hi-dreams, fair and sweot! las for 1 .;es of the Norman coast, Alas for Normandie. Alas for tho absent fisher host, Alas, La Belle Marie! La Belle Marie, La Belle Mario, there are many beads in your rosary: There's one for the wedded and one for the free, and one for the brave men lost at sea. Oh! gray are your oyos as the storm-swept lea, but where is your lover, Belle Marie? The fourth day broke In a sob of rain, And a ship camq In on the turn of the tide. Tho heart of tho maid beat warm again As a boat's crow loft the side; z For she was the pride of the Norman coast, The flower of Normandie, The ship of the man she loved lb most, The tattered Belle Marie! La Belle Marie, La Belle Mario, there are many beads in your rosary: There's one for the wedded and one for the free, and one for the brave men lost at sea. Oh! gray are your eyes as the storm-swept lea, and here is your lover, Belle Marie! They laid him down at her feet stark dead, And the maiden gave nor a sob nor a groan, But into hr lap she took his head, And she sat as turned to stone. Alas for the flower of the Norman coast, Alas for Normandie, Alas for tho man she loved the" most, Alas, La Belle Marie! I.a Belle Marie, La Belle Marie, you shall hear tho prayers in the litany: There's one for tho wedded and one for the free, and one for the brave men lo'st at sea! And hark! Thro' tho roar of the storm-wracked lea, the spades in the church-yard, Belle Marie! Frederick Truesdell, in Appleton's Magazine. |