One was shot as it may be,
One was left on the beach to die,
But all in the hollow sleeping lie.
There they lie alow, low, low,
Nor wake at the cockrel’s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,
There they lie alow, low, low.
Sometimes when the moon is bright
You can see the three, like gulls in flight,
Flitting along above the waves,