The linen that would wrap the dead
She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
Low singing all alone—
"His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die tonight."
Mallet, David. William and Margaret. (In W. M. Dixon's The Edinburgh Book of Scottish Verse.)
The hungry worm my sister is,
The winding sheet I wear.
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
Moore, Thomas. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp.
They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her birch canoe.
Morris, William. The Tune of Seven Towers.
No one walks there now;
Except in the white moonlight
The white ghosts walk in a row,
If one could see it, an awful sight.
"Listen!" said Fair Yolande of the flowers,
"This is the tune of Seven Towers."
Österling, Anders. Meeting of Phantoms. (In Charles Wharton Stork's Anthology of Swedish Lyrics from 1750 to 1915.)
I in a vision
Saw my lost sweetheart,
Fearlessly toward me
I saw her stray.
So pale! I thought then;
She smiled her answer:
"My heart, my spirit,
I've kissed away."
O'Sullivan, Vincent. He Came on Holy Saturday. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.)