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 90 DIBDIN

Aloft while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below,

Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low

And on that night, when all the crew,

The memory of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee, And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burden of my song shall be : Blow high, blow low

XXXVIII

THE PERFECT SAILOR

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty,

But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair;

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