The cook of the vessel is playing the flute, The steersman’s playing the fiddle, The trumpet is blown by the Doctor himself, And a lad beats the drum in the middle. A hundred niggers, both women and men, Are yelling and whirling and leaping, As though they were mad; and at every spring Their irons the tune are keeping. They stamp on the ground in uproarious mirth, And many a swarthy maiden Clasps her naked partner with warmth, while at times The air with their groanings is laden. The jailer acts as _maître des plaisirs_, And dealing his lashes so fearful, The weary dancers he stimulates, And bids them be merry and cheerful. So dideldumdei and schnedderedeng! The strange unwonted commotion Aroused from their lazy slumbers below The monsters fierce of the ocean. All-heavy with sleep, the sharks swam up, In numbers many a hundred; They stupidly stared at the ship on high With amazement, and blindly wondered. They see that their usual breakfast time Has not come as soon as ’tis wanted, So they gape and ope wide their throats, their jaws With teeth like saws being planted. And dideldumdei and schnedderedeng! There seems no end to the dances; The sharks grow impatient, and bite themselves In the tail with their teeth like lances. I presume that for music they’ve got no taste, Like many an ignoramus; Trust not the beast that music loves not, Says Albion’s poet famous. And schnedderedeng and dideldumdei! Not one of the dancers seems lazy; At the foremast stands Mynher Van Koek, And with folded hands thus prays he: “For Christ’s dear sake, O spare, good Lord, “The lives of these swarthy sinners; “If they’ve anger’d thee e’er, thou know’st they’re as dull “As the beasts that we eat for our dinners. “O spare their lives, for Christ’s dear sake, “Who died for our salvation; “For unless I have left me three hundred head, “There’s an end to my occupation.” 7. AFFRONTENBURG. Time fleeteth, yet that castle old, With all its battlements, its tower, And simple folk that in it dwelt, Appears before me every hour. I ever see the weathercock That on the roof turn’d round so drily; Each person, ere he spoke a word, Was wont to look up tow’rds it slily. He that would talk, first learnt the wind, For fear the ancient grumbler Boreas Might turn against him suddenly, Tormenting him with blast uproarious. In truth, the wisest held their tongues, For in that place an echo sported, Which, when it answer’d back the voice, Each word maliciously distorted. Amidst the castle garden stood A marble fount, with sphinxes round it, For ever dry, though tears enough Had flow’d inside it, to have drown’d it.