Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;

Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the Spectre she espied,

The fear-struck damsel faintly said,

“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,

“Oh! 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 a well

I tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.