To water's edge the sodden corpse;

And with his oar it pushes off

Adown the open, flowing stream;

And with the tide the dead man floats

In search of grave with cross o'erhead.

And long the body, tossed by waves,

Rolled, floating, like a living thing;

The peasant watched it out of sight,

And then he thoughtful home returned:

"Now, brats, to none a word of this,

And wastel-loaf I'll give to each;

But good heed take, and hold your tongues,

Or else a whipping you shall have!"

The night was rough, the storm-blast raged,

The river overflowed its banks;

Within the peasant's smoky hut

The flickering lath-torch spluttered;

The children slept, the housewife dozed.

And on his shelf the husband lay;

When, hark! above the tempest's howl

He heard some one at window knock.

"Who's there?".... Eh, open, my good friend

"Why, what ill luck is there abroad,

That thou, like Cain, dost prowl the night?

The devil take thee quick from hence!

For roaming vagrants where find place?

Our house is small and close enough."

And, with unwilling, lazy hand,

He window opened and looked out.

From out a cloud the moon peered forth...,

Before him stood a naked form,

With water dripping from his beard;

His eyes were open, motionless;