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Alas! our good Lord Collingwood, What is it ails him now? Tears stand within the brave man's eyes, Each softer pulse is stirred: It is the sickness of the heart, Of hope too long deferred.

He's pining for his native seas, And for his native shore; All but his honour he would give, To be at home once more. He does not know his children's fare; His wife might pass him by, He is so altered, did they meet, With an unconscious eye: