When tales they tell by firelight,
Of things the children to affright,
Then Mewlip’s name is whispered soft,
For sodden Mewlip haunts the night,
A ghastly, gormly sight.
In stagnant marshes dank and deep
The Mewlips dwell, the Mewlips creep.
Where grey-grim mosses hang aloft,
Where dripping willows ever weep,
And corbies murder sleep.
The tall reeds make a dismal wall,
Their roof a murky waterfall,
A shadow for a blanket there,
And mist a ready-whitened pall,
Hovering over all.
Their soft blanched hands are quick to hold,
Beware, ye travellers too bold!
They wrap you in their clinging hair,
And then the scaly limbs enfold,
Down in the bog and cold.
No eye has seen a Mewlip face,
Only the sodden weeds which trace
Strange fungal features dimly guessed,
A maw that seeks and gapes apace,
Dining without a grace.
Seek not the Mewlip marshes fey!
Walk not that slime-beshadowed way,
Naught but the mould'ring head-bones jest,
Baring their teeth to the wincing day,
Clacking their jaws with 'nay!