(They little think, ere morrow’s noon
All, all would have to plumb the deep.)
Young wives, with rosy faces, trip—
Sing tunefully as they go by—
Towards the galley of the ship,
To boil, to broil, to bake, or fry,
Some little dainty—eggs, or ham,
An omèlet, or such rarities
As tarts composed with currant-jam,
In readiness towards their teas.