“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We’re Fiends;—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, cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;