IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, And the voice that comes from the yonder sea Sings to the quaint old mansions there Of “the time, the time that used to be;”
And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, And they seem to say in an undertone, With half a sigh and with half a moan: “It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich witches weave at night Their magic, spells with impish glee; They shriek and laugh in their demon flight From the old Main House to the frightened sea.
And ghosts of eld come out to weep Over the town that is fast asleep; And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: “It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill Over against the calling sea; And through the nights so deep and chill Watcheth a maiden constantly,—
Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear Over the roar of the waves anear The pitiful cry of a far-off year: “It was, but it never again will be.”
In Ipswich once a witch I knew,— An artless Saxon witch was she; By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, Sweet was the spell she cast on me.
Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, And the heart that is old and battered and chill Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill What was, but never again can be.
Dear Anna, I would not conjure down The ghost that cometh to solace me; I love to think of old Ipswich town, Where somewhat better than friends were we;
For with every thought of the dear old place Cometh again the tender grace Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, As it was, and is, and ever shall be.
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