And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack ! And here his malt he pil'd, Cautious in vain ! These rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade ? Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd ; And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight ! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white ; As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon !