And she told how, in the shape of the wind, As manfully it roar'd, She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, And threw it overboard. And to have seen the mother's pangs, 'Twas a glorious sight to see; The crew could scarcely hold her down From jumping in the sea. The hag held a lock of her hair in her hand, And it was soft and fair: It must have been a lovely child, To have had such lovely hair. And she said the father in his arms He held his sickly son, And his dying throes they fast arose, His pains were nearly done. And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands, And his face grew deadly blue; And the father he tore his thin gray hair, And kiss'd the livid hue. And then she told how she bored a hole In the bark, and it fill'd away: And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, And some did vow and pray. The man and woman they soon were dead, The sailors their strength did urge; But the billows that beat were their winding-sheet, And the winds sung their funeral dirge. She threw the infant's hair in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. The second begun: She said she had done The task that Queen Hecate had set her, And that the devil, the father of evil, Had never accomplished a better. She said, there was an aged woman, And she had a daughter fair, Whose evil habits fill'd her heart With misery and care. The daughter had a paramour, A wicked man was he, And oft the woman him against Did murmur grievously. And the hag had work'd the daughter up To murder her old mother, That then she might seize on all her goods, And wanton with her lover. And one night as the old woman Was sick and ill in bed. And pondering solely on the life Her wicked daughter led, She heard her footstep on the floor, And she raised her pallid head, And she saw her daughter, with a knife, Approaching to her bed. And said, My child, I'm very ill, I have not long to live, Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die Thy sins I may forgive. And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, And she lifted the sharp bright knife, And the mother saw her fell intent, And hard she begg'd for life. But prayers would nothing her avail, And she scream'd aloud with fear, But the house was lone, and the piercing screams Could reach no human ear And though that she was sick, and old, She struggled hard, and fought; The murderess cut three fingers through Ere she could reach her throat. And the hag she held her fingers up, The skin was mangled sore, And they all agreed a nobler deed Was never done before. And she threw the fingers in the fire, The red flame flamed high, And round about the cauldron stout They danced right merrily. The third arose: She said she'd been To holy Palestine; And seen more blood in one short day Than they had all seen in nine.