Her yawl is launch'd; light o'er the deep,
Too kind, she wafts a ruffian band;
Her blue track lengthens to the bark,
And soon on deck the miscreants stand.
Around they throw the baleful glance;
Suspense holds mute the anxious crew—
Who is their prey?—poor sailor boy!
The baleful glance is fix'd on you.
Nay, why that useless scrip unfold?
They damn the "lying yankee scrawl,"
Torn from thine hand, it strews the wave,—
They force thee, trembling, to the yawl.
Sick was thine heart, as from the deck,
The hand of friendship wav'd farewell;
Mad was thy brain, as, far behind,
In the grey mist, thy vessel fell.
One hope, yet, to thy bosom clung,
The captain mercy might impart;
Vain was that hope, which bade thee look,
For mercy in a Pirate's heart.
What woes can man on man inflict,
When malice joins with uncheck'd pow'r;
Such woes, unpitied and unknown,
For many a month, the sailor bore!
Oft gem'd his eye the bursting tear,
As mem'ry lingered on past joy;
As oft they flung the cruel jeer,
And damn'd the "chicken liver'd boy."
When sick at heart, with "hope deferr'd,"
Kind sleep his wasting form embrac'd,
Some ready minion ply'd the lash,
And the lov'd dream of freedom chas'd.
Fast to an end his miseries drew;
The deadly hectic flush'd his cheek;
On his pale brow the cold dew hung,
He sigh'd, and sunk upon the deck!
The sailor's woes drew forth no sigh;
No hand would close the sailor's eye;
Remorseless, his pale corse they gave,
Unshrouded, to the friendly wave.