  Oh, go not out upon the storm, Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool! A witch tho' she be dead may charm Thee and befool. A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan, Down under ooze and salty weed, She'll make thee hear—and then her own! Till thou shall heed. And it will suck upon thy heart— The sorcery within her cry— Till madness out of thee upstart, And rage to die. For him she loved, she laughed to death! And as afloat his chill hand lay, "Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!" Did she not say? And from his finger strive to draw The ring that bound him to her spell?— But on her closed his hand—she saw ... Oh, who can tell? For tho' she strove—tho' she did wail, The dead hand held her cold and fast: The tide crawled in o'er rock and swale, To her at last! Down in the pool where she was swept He holds her—Oh, go not a-near! For none has heard her cry but wept And died that year. |
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