Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay,
Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes,
And paddled with curses away.
Where once the Lacustrians plying,
Drove many a pillar or stake,
A strata of relics is lying
'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake.
And he who this song made for singing,
Himself through those layers has mined,
And the relics to daylight upbringing,