He was up to the neck in debts and scrapes;
And when the west wind refreshingly blew,
He thought it the pleasantest of escapes
To sail for new worlds with nothing to do.
Strolling and idling by day and by night,
He liv'd by his wits, with a laugh for fate;
And his wits not being extremely bright,
He accomplish'd nothing remarkably great.
Wandering ev'rywhere, ragged and poor,
With nothing to do and plenty to say,