They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and moving our life shall be And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. (Thomas Moore)
