Than old George Fletcher, on the British coast
Dwelt not a seaman who had more to boast:
Kind, simple and sincere - he seldom spoke,
But sometimes sang and chorus’d - “Hearts of Oak:”
In dangers steady, with his lot content,
His days in labour and in love were spent.
He left a Son so like him, that the old
With joy exclaim’d, “’Tis Fletcher we behold;”
But to his Brother, when the kinsmen came
And view’d his form, they grudged the father’s name.