62 THE FRESH-WATER SIREN. 



In the mill of ner jaws it went crunch, crunch, crunch, 

 As the juices flowed out, she went munch, munch, munch. 

 Little dreaming that trouble and danger impended, 

 She took her siesta when dinner was ended ; 

 No company present, she knew, but the dead, 

 In perfect composure she nodded her head. 

 Thus she sat till the moonlight with fitful gleam, 

 Peered in thro' the glass of the crystal stream. 



The foul creature starts in a tremor awakes ; 



Is it the wind that too boisterously shakes 



The tremulous cords of her water-girt dome, 



Or is it the voice of her crimes coming home ? 



She looks up in affright, through a fearful chasm, 



('Twas enough to bring on quite a nervous spasm,) 



Down comes the water rushing and roaring, 



From the roof of her cell in a torrent pouring. 



But since witches can swim, what in this to appal? 



Why, perhaps, no great deal, but this was not all. 



Riding down on the wave, like a ship in a gale, 



The bright moonbeams illuming his coat of mail, 



Came the winged knight she'd once thought of entrapping, 



And who now, in return, had just caught her napping. 



" At last, at your bidding, I'm come, dame," quoth he ; 



The Siren looked blue, but no word spoke she ; 



Then they meet in as loving collision, I trow, 



As when flint strikes on steel, or fire falls on tow. 



For the hub-bub around them they care not a rush, 



The waters may roar, and the waters may gush ; 



The once air-propp'd dome all to pieces may shiver; 



Then, struggling, they rise on the breast of the river. 



The knight swam like a drake, the witch like a duck, 



Or the Old One's dam ; but the Old One's own luck 



Will now and then fail, like the luck of a sinner, 



And the witch by ill luck had made too good a dinner; 



