The ringers ran by two, by three;
‘Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best,’ quoth he.
‘Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Play all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!
Men say it was a stolen tyde—
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall: