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Of water-rat's fur in a mantle so warm,
With a coronet green on her head, She oft walks abroad at the end of a storm, And the fishes are pleased at the sight of her fort
Though they gaze at the Fen King with dread.
For oft when the winds have long slept in the sky,
And the streams are unruffled and clear, Beneath the blue waters his red rolling eye Is seen, and well knowing a tempest is nigh, The fisherman shudder with fear.
Yes, when in his hunger he rages around,
A tempest soon falls on the fen ; Cows, oxen, and sheep, in the waters are drown'd, And he, and his spouse, in their palace profound,
Sublimely are feasted again.
O ye, who from Granton to Crowland repair,
To gaze at monastic remains; O never forget, if the weather is fair, To hunt on the Nene for the palace so rare,
Where the Fen King so splendidly reigns.
O look for its turrets resplendent with gold,
And studded with emeralds green ; For oft by the maidens of Ramsea, I'm told, These words were pronounced by a wizard of old, Who dwelt on the banks of the None.