Tennant's Anster Fair, XIII

Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From sea-silk beds in their coral caves, With snail-plate armour snatched in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste; Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, Some on the blood-red leeches glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sidelong soldier-crab; And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings— They cut the wave with the living oar And hurry on to the moonlight shore, To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay.