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Follows the seaman's hardy, perilous life; And the poor passengers, torn from their homes To toss upon the rude and fathomless deep, Who shall no more on the dry land set foot, Nor find a peaceful rest ev'n for their bones. It is a dismal thought.

And yet how fair and bright the morning shines, As if it laugh'd at all the late turmoil. There's not a cloud in the whole azure sky.

None, save those little wanderers, pure as snow, That, like bewilder'd things, are hasting on Like sea-birds to their rock.—What men are these?

We are, an' please ye, good and noble lady. Poor shipwreck'd seamen, cast upon your shore; Our all is lost; and we are spent and faint For want of food.

Ye shall not want it long. Go to the Castle, where all needful succour Will be provided for you.—From what port? But stop not now to answer idle questions. Are ye all mariners?

Those men are merchants;