O merry their laugh when they felt the land
Under their light cool feet!
Each laid her comb on the yellow sand,
And the gladsome dance grew fleet.

But the fairest she laid her comb by itsel'
On the rock where the king's son lay.
He stole about, and the carven shell
He hid in his bosom away.

And he watched the dance till the clouds did gloom,
And the wind blew an angry tune:
One after one she caught up her comb,
To the sea went dancin' doon.

But the fairest, wi' hair like the mune in a clud,
She sought till she was the last.
He creepin' went and watchin' stud,
And he thought to hold her fast.

She dropped at his feet without motion or heed;
He took her, and home he sped.--
All day she lay like a withered seaweed,
On a purple and gowden bed.

But at night whan the wind frae the watery bars
Blew into the dusky room,
She opened her een like twa settin' stars,
And back came her twilight bloom.

The king's son knelt beside her bed:
She was his ere a month had passed;
And the cold sea-maiden he had wed
Grew a tender wife at last.

And all went well till her baby was born,
And then she couldna sleep;
She would rise and wander till breakin' morn,
Hark-harkin' the sound o' the deep.

One night when the wind was wailing about,
And the sea was speckled wi' foam,
From room to room she went in and out
And she came on her carven comb.

She twisted her hair with eager hands,
She put in the comb with glee:
She's out and she's over the glittering sands,
And away to the moaning sea.

One cry came back from far away:
He woke, and was all alone.
Her night robe lay on the marble grey,
And the cold sea-maiden was gone.

Ever and aye frae first peep o' the moon,
Whan the wind blew aff o' the sea,
The desert shore still up and doon
Heavy at heart paced he.

But never more came the maidens to play
From the merry cold-hearted sea;
He heard their laughter far out and away,
But heavy at heart paced he.

I have modernized the ballad--indeed spoiled it altogether, for I have
made up this version from the memory of it--with only, I fear, just a
touch here and there of the original expression.

"That's what comes of taking what you have no right to," said Turkey,
in whom the practical had ever the upper hand of the imaginative.

As we walked home together I resumed the subject.

"I think you're too hard on the king's son," I said. "He couldn't help
falling in