Inkle. O say, simple maid, have you form'd any notion
Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean?
When winds whistle shrilly, ah! won't they remind you,
To sigh with regret, for the grot left behind you?
Yar. Ah! no, I could follow, and sail the world over,
Nor think of my grot, when I look at my lover;
The winds, which blow round us, your arms for my pillow,
Will lull us to sleep, whilst we're rocked by each billow.
Both. O say then my true love, we never will sunder,
Nor shrink from the tempest, nor dread the big thunder: