More strong and strong her terrors rose;—
Her shadow did the maid appal;—
She trembled at her lovely nose—
It look'd so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;—
Three stories high, long, dull and old—
As great lords' stories often are.
All Nature now appear'd to pause;
And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"
No "curtain'd sleep" had she;—because
She had no curtains to her bed.
Listening she lay;—with iron din,
The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.
Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes;
And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!
Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear struck damsel faintly said,
"What would my Thomas?"—he replied,
"O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."
"All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd;
I was not ill—but in the well
I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.
"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're friends;—this is not he and I;
We are not here—for we are there.
"Yes;—two foul water fiends are we;
Maid of the moor! attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand;—we come for thee!
The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"
"To wind her in her cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
Such sheets there are in Holland dykes."