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     And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle
     Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,
     The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,
     And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
     Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,
     His bark her anchor weighed,
Freighted with seven-score Christian souls
     Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred,
     Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves, rudderless,
     A shattered hulk she swung.

‘ God save us! ’ cried the captain,
     “For naught can man avail;
Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks
     Her rudder and her sail!

Behind us are the Moormen;
     At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
     There's death upon the land! “

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Tunisia (Tunisia) (1)
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