The tide comes up the black and gusty river,
Slowly against it makes a boat its way,
In the rough gale the bending sedges shiver,
The dripping piles fling back the shattered spray;
There is a church, but none who come to pray--
For it is a week-day and made fast the door,
But onward by a willow-sheltered bay
Hangs forth a sign more tempting to the boer;
Wild sing the breezes from the northern sea
Flustering the topsails on the coast's low line,
Windly sings Hans within the lattice, he
Is flustered too, but it is with brantewein:
See on the sands a wandering group appear,
Mynherr Verkoop the pedlar and his gear.