* * * * *
She had drawn on her silken hose and garter,
Her crimson petticoat was kilted high,
She trod her way amid the bog and brambles,
Until the fairy-tree she stood near-by.
When first she cried the devil’s name so loudly
She listened, but she heard no sound at all;
When twice she cried, she thought from out the darkness
She heard the echo of a light footfall.
When last she cried her voice came in a whisper,
She trembled in her loneliness and fright;
Before her stood a shrouded, mighty figure,
In sombre garments blacker than the night.
“And if you be my own true love,” she questioned,
“I fear you! Speak you quickly unto me.”
“O, I am not your own true love,” it answered,
“He drifts without a grave upon the sea.”
“If he be dead, then gladly will I follow
Down the black stairs of death into the grave.”
“Your lover calls you for a place to rest him
From the eternal tossing of the wave.”
“I’ll make my love a bed both wide and hollow,
A grave wherein we both may ever sleep.”
“What give you for his body fair and slender,
To draw it from the dangers of the deep?”
“I’ll give you both my silver comb and earrings,
I’ll give you all my little treasure store.”
“I will but take what living thing comes forward,
The first to meet you, passing to your door.”
“O may my little dog be first to meet me,
So loose my lover from your dreaded hold.”
“What will you give me for the heart that loved you,
The heart that I hold chained and frozen cold?”
“My own betrothed ring I give you gladly,
My ring of pearls—and every one a tear!”
“I will but have what other living creature
That second in your pathway shall appear.”