"I'm just so happy," said Creggan, "that I believe I could sing."
"My dear boy," said Willie, "I already know enough about politics to be able to assure you that no act of parliament has yet been passed against singing. Heave round, as you sailors say, and give us a ditty."
"Give us a bass then, Willie."
"That I will, and the horse himself will beat time to your melody."
"Well, I'll sing you a song our bo's'n used to troll at the fo'castle head in starlight evenings, when our ship was far at sea. But I have not his voice. It is called—
THE SAILOR'S RETURN.
Bleak was the morn when William left his Nancy,
The fleecy snow frown'd on the whitened shore,
Cold as the fears that chilled her dreary fancy,
While she her sailor from her bosom tore.
To his fill'd heart a little Nancy pressing,
While a young tar the ample trousers eyed,
In need of firmness, in this state distressing,
Will checked the rising sigh, and fondly cried:
'Ne'er fear the perils of the fickle ocean,
Sorrow's all a notion,
Grief all in vain;
Sweet love, take heart,
For we but part
In joy to meet again.'
Loud blew the wind, when, leaning on that willow
Where the dear name of William printed stood,
Poor Nancy saw, tossed by a faithless billow,
A ship dash'd 'gainst a rock that topped the flood.
Her tender heart, with frantic sorrow thrilling,
Wild as the storm that howl'd along the shore,
No longer could resist a stroke so killing:
''Tis he,' she cried, 'nor shall I see him more!
Why did he ever trust the fickle ocean?
Sorrow's my portion,
Misery and pain!
Break, my poor heart,
For now we part,
Never to meet again.'
Mild was the eye, all nature was smiling,
Four tedious years had Nancy passed in grief,
When, with her children, the sad hours beguiling,
She saw her William fly to her relief!
Sunk in his arms with bliss he quickly found her,
But soon return'd to life, to love, and joy;
While her grown young ones anxiously surround her,
And now Will clasps his girl, and now his boy.
'Did I not say, though 'tis a fickle ocean,
Sorrow's all a notion,
Grief all in vain?
My joy how sweet!
For now we meet,
Never to part again.'
As the horse went merrily trotting along the road, and the voices of those happy boys raised in song was echoed from rock and brae, little kilted lads and kirtled lassies ran out from cottage doors—for joy is infectious—to shout and wave their bonnets as long as they could see the trap.