150 THE FRESH-WATER SIREN. 



For a river sprite, 



Or a naiad bright, 

 'Twos fit for a fairy queen 



Nay, that pendent cell 



Might have suited well, 

 For the boudoir of sweet Ondine. 



In this nice little snuggery sat the witch crone, 

 Deep immersed in the sweets of a large marrow-bone ; 

 In the mill of her 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 : 

 Here it shone on a bundle of skulls pick'd bare, 

 There it fell on a tissue of tangled hair, 

 On a fragment glanced of some knight's bright armour, 

 Who had fallen a prey to the treacherous charmer ; 

 And the moon-light gave all a sepulchral hue, 

 Through the waving green as it flickered through. 



The foul creature starts in a tremor awakes ; 

 Is it the wind that too boisterously shakes 



