She would not wait for a buccaneer;—
My love was true for my love was dead,
Her grave is green as my soul is sere.
Years be-sped and the world is old
And the dew is fresh on the English green,
And my love’s at rest in the English mould
Here in my heart that ye now have seen.
Hard eyes are soft for the song is sweet,
Hard hearts are soft for the song he sings,
It was the minstrel of the fleet