By splash of spray, the threads are torn,
Or, as ’twere some old water-witch,
Grown weary eyed, had dropped a stitch,
Appears a patch of faded stuff,
Of fretted, dingy-brown, or buff,
With nets of fisher-folk, in spots,
Entangled with the lobster-pots.
But see! a bit of old brocade,
A water-kelpie must have made;
And there’s a garb of quaintest kind