With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and through
Her bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;
Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,
(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)
Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,—
At last she found the key;—then, with a sigh
Long-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,
Which rose and curl'd—ay, gracefully as smoke
Seen at a distance—misty-wreathing—dimly
Issuing from some wood-bound cottage chimley.