The hectic fen-fires dancing. Ho!
What ho!
Chorus.Súmph, súmph, súmph,
Súmph.
Melfort. No answer; no one comes.
It is the marsh, and I am in it
Right to the knees. This pays me well
For thinking of the bonny bride
And all her train of rosy maids,
When I should mark the way. But on—