Young Ithill, the eldest, a youth of sixteen,
His seat unaccountably lost,
And out of the frail skiff, the promising boy,
In a twinkling was ruthlessly tost.
His nearest companion, young Whittaker, sprang,
His canoe prompt assistance to lend,
But the noble young Ithill refused to lay hold,
For fear of endangering his friend.
Young Girling was some distance off, but at once
To the rescue most gallantly sprang,
As meantime the cry of "a boy drowning," loud
Through the air supplicatingly rang.
And the mother of Girling, who heard that wild cry,
Flew like lightning across to the strand,
Plunged fearlessly into the tide, where her son
Was struggling with stout heart and hand
To reach his poor friend, and the brave mother sought
To encourage his efforts to save,
While she, who, like him, could not swim, struggled hard,
Kept afloat by her clothes on the wave.
But vain were their efforts, the telegraph boy
Had sunk 'neath the pitiless wave,
And his poor lifeless body, so late full of life,
Now lies in its calm ocean grave.
In response to shrill cries for assistance, some men
Put off in a boat, all too late!
Instead of at once plunging in to the boy,
Thus heartlessly left to his fate,
'Tis said one of three or four beings called men,
Calmly standing close by on the land,
Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk,
In reply to the woman's demand.
I've been told, but 'tis almost too hard to believe,
That one of these beings could swim,
But was too great a coward and poltroon to risk
The endangering of life or of limb.
But enough of such sickening allusions as these;
Those who might have saved life, lost what none
Who never ennoble their lives by good deeds,
Could imagine of happiness won