The Flood

I thought my true love slept;

Behind her chair I crept

And pulled out a long pin;

The golden flood came out,

She shook it all about,

With both our faces in.

Ah! little wren, I know

Your mossy, small nest now

A windy, cold place is;

No eye can see my face,

Howe’er it watch the place

Where I half drown in bliss.

When I am drowned half dead,

She laughs and shakes her head;

Flogged by her hair-waves, I

Withdraw my face from there;

But never once, I swear,

She heard a mercy-cry.