On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod—unpleasing sight, I ween!
Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me while I write;
As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight,
Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,