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 And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doffed, For, though his body's under hatches,

His soul has gone aloft.

Dibdin.

��XXXIX

THE DESERTER

IF sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, Could more than drinking

My cares compose, A cure for sorrow From sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow

Would end my woes. But as in wailing There's nought availing, And Death unfailing

Will strike the blow,

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