Page:Far, far at sea (NLS104186882).pdf/4

4 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who al! commands,

Shall give, to call life’s crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,

In vain Tom’s life has doff'd,

For tho’ his body’s under hatches.

His soul is gone aloft.

THE SAILOR’S ADIEU.

The topsails shiver in the wind. The ship she casts to seat But yet my heart, my soul, my mind, Are, Mary, moor’d with thee: For though thy sailor’s bound afar, Still love shall be my leading star.

Should landmen flatter when we’re sail’d, O doubt their artful tales; No gallant sailor ever fail’d, If Love breath’d constant gales. Thou art the compass of my soul, Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Sirens in every port we meet, More fell than rocks or waves; But such as grace the British fleet, Are lovers, and not slaves.