When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his ee.
[The masts that were like the beaten gold,
Bent not on the heaving seas;
But the sails, that were o' the taffety,
Fill'd not in the east land-breeze.—]
They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterly.