Oh, go not out upon the storm,
Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!
A witch tho’ she be dead may charm
Thee and befool.
A wild night‘ tis! her lover's moan,
Down under ooze and salty weed,
She'll make thee hear — and then her own!
Till thou shalt heed.
And it will suck upon thy heart —
The sorcery within her cry —
Till madness out of thee upstart,
And rage to die.
For him she loved, she laughed to death!
And as afloat his chill hand lay,
“Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!”
Did she not say?
And from his finger strive to draw
The ring that bound him to her spell?
Till on her closed his hand whose awe
No curse could quell?
Oh, yea! and tho’ she struggled pale,
Did it not hold her cold and fast,
Till crawled the tide o'er rock and swale,
To her at last?
Down in the pool where she was swept
He holds her — Oh, go not a-near!
For none has heard her cry but wept
And died that year.