Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/214



is lying on the sands, No rippling wave is sparkling near her; She seems unmanned of all her hands— There's not a soul on board to steer her!

'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing Upon a lonely beach thus lying, While mystic winds for ever sing Among its shrouds like spirits sighing.

Oh! can it be a spectre-ship, Forwearied of the storm and ocean, That here hath ended its last trip, And sought repose from ceaseless motion?

I deem amiss: for vonder, see, A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket— A little man with face of glee— His neighbours call him Tim the Tacket.