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.
[CALL TO YOUR MATE, BOB-WHITE]
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,
And I will call to mine.
Call to her by the meadow-gate,
And I will call by the pine.
Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,
The windy wheat sways west.
Whistle again, call clear and run
To lure her out of her nest.
For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,
With Mary down the lane
I'll walk, in the dusk of locust tops,
And be her lover again.