Francis James Child

“ And to think on her little wee son.
'O hold your tongue, my dear,' he said,
'And let all your weeping abee,
For I'll soon show to you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy.'
They had not sailed a mile awa,
Never a mile but two,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
From his gay robes sticking thro.
They had not sailed a mile awa,
Never a mile but three,
When dark, dark, grew his eerie looks,
And raging grew the sea. ”