Classic Poem

Sigh, sigh, rushes!
Moan, waves, moan!
Can ye not tell where Ingalill,
Sweet Ingalill has gone?

She cried like a wounded duck as she sank in the sea —
When spring last was green, that would be.

She had wakened the wrath of the towns-folk there,
An evil wrath that she might not bear.

She wakened their wrath by her goods and gold
And the love she bore for her lover bold.
With a thorn they pierced an eyeball through,
With mud they defiled a lily's dew.
Then sing, oh, sing your song of grief,
Ye little waves, for my heart's relief!
Sigh, sigh, rushes!
Moan, waves, moan!