And mock’d the Beetle, humming by;
And then, with loud fantastic tone
She sang her wild strain, sad—alone.
And if a stranger wander’d near
Or paus’d the frantic Song to hear,
The burthen she would soft repeat,
“Who comes to soothe Poor Marguerite?”
And why did she with sun-burnt breast,
So wander, and so scorn to rest?
Why did the nut-brown Maiden go