Tanni leaned her cheek against the palm of her hand, her arm resting on the smooth top of the table. So wrapt in the song and the lad’s voice, she was unaware that her elbow rested in a small puddle of water earlier spilled from her mug.
‘Well done!’ she cried out, clapping her hands in delight as he finished his song. ‘Lovely, wasn’t it?’ she asked turning to Rhys.
He was silently fingering the tune on his fiddle, fixing the melody in such manner in his mind for later play. ‘We should ask him to go over the words with us later,’ Rhys replied. ‘Tis a lovely tune.’ He picked up his bow and put it to the strings. ‘Let’s do this one, eh?’ he he said nodding at Tanni.
She stood at his side and spoke loud enough to be heard above the clatter of mug and cutlery and the conversation. ‘Since it’s a sad song this lad has sung, my brother and I would like to add another. That is, if you don't mind. One we heard in our travels . . . one from along a lonely, rock strewn strand on the Great Sea . . .
~*~
By the storm-torn
shoreline, a woman is standing,
The spray strung like jewels in her hair;
And the sea tore the rocks near that desolate landing,
As though it had known she stood there.
For she has come down to condemn that wild ocean,
For the murderous loss of her man;
His boat sailed out on Wednesday morning,
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands.
Oh, and white were the wave caps and wild was their parting,
So fierce is the warring of love;
But she prayed to the gods, both of men and of sailors,
Not to cast their cruel nets o'er her love.
Now she has come down to condemn that wild ocean,
For the murderous loss of her man;
His boat sailed out on Wednesday morning,
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands.
There's a school on the hill where the sons of dead fathers,
Are led toward tempests and gales;
Where their God-given wings are clipped close to their bodies,
And their eyes are bound 'round with ship's sails.
And she has come down to condemn that wild ocean,
For the murderous loss of her man;
His boat sailed out on Wednesday morning,
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands.
What force leads a man to a life filled with danger,
High on seas or a mile underground?
It's when need is his master and poverty's no stranger,
And there's no other work to be found.
But she has come down to condemn that wild ocean,
For the murderous loss of her man;
His boat sailed out on Wednesday morning,
And it's feared she's gone down with all hands.