There sits a girl in denim,

The river murmuring near;

She throws the hook, and watches;

The fish pass it by, unafraid.

A ring, with a shining jewel,

Is sparkling on her hand;

She ties it round the hook,

And flings it from the land.

Then, rising from the water,

Thrusts a hand like ivory, fair.

What gleams upon its finger?

The banded ring is there.

And, rising from the murky bottom

A young and handsome pioneer of old;

In fashioned pelts he rises,

That glitter in both light and mold.

The girl is pale with terror-

'No, Spirit of the Mississippi, no,

It was not you I wanted;

Let go of my ring, I pray.'

'Ah, North-Country Maid, not to fish

Is the bait of diamond thrown;

The ring will never leave me,

And you must be my own.'