I
Sailor William is dead. And now
Toll the great bells disconsolate.
Let the maiden have time for tears
Ere you set on her gentle brow
England's glittering crown of state.
Heavy burden for eighteen years.
Grant the maiden some weeping space
Ere on her youthful brow you place
England's crown.
Once her stately head it presses,
Fifty years it must rest on her tresses
Till their brown
Turns to white beneath King Time's caresses—
Grant her weeping space.