Or sitting and talking on their graves,
Where they lie alow, low, low,
Nor hear the cockrel’s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,
There they lie alow, low, low.
There was a pause—when some one merrily
Struck up a song which all have known of old;
How Billy Taylor’s sweetheart went to sea,
And how she fought in an engagement bold:
And as the talk ran on of female sailors