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214 FOLK-SONGS OF LOWER BRITTANY.
When the farmer's wife 's in bed The sailor's wife the floor must tread.
When the wind arises shrill,
Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill.
Her heart will beat, her eyes will fill, And in her veins the blood run chill.
Every moment she seeks the door, — Mercy, how the torrents pour !
If I had store of money red,
I know the husband I would wed.
I 'd wed the heir of a good house, Who can reap the fields he ploughs.
Who can reap the fields he ploughs, And in his stable has good cows.
Both night and day whom I can see, And who will sleep by the side of me.
While the poor sailor, day and night, Lives in peril and affright.
Day and night must work and wake, And of a plank his cradle make.
The Breton women, who spend hours at the spinning-wheel, as in all other countries, accompany the monotonous and musical drone with long chants, that hypnotize the sense of labor, which are often