‘Moll Pitcher’s house,’ a lonely spot, full sure,
Though some there were who sought her close-shut door,
Some restless ones, who longed to know their fate.
Unwilling the decrees of Heaven to wait;
As the still evening closed, with awe-struck glance.
Their lingering feet would stealthily advance.
With timid knock they waked the echoes lone,
Then started back, half tempted to return.
But ’tis not ours to tell the mystic rites
Attendant on those dark and fearful nights,