Let the ocean be port, and we’ll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
“With songs that jovial spectres chant,
Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveler hears our midnight mirth:
‘O list,’ he cries, ‘the haunted choir!
The merriest ghost that walks the earth
Is now the ghost of a ghostly friar.’
Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be port, and we’ll think it good sport