Grew the wharves and the towers and the oak-shaded hill,
And the news came at last, ’twas Sir Francis had died
’Mid his cabins of gold at the last Christmas-tide.
‘Sir Francis?’ they said. ‘Let the old bell be tolled.’
And the old bell began to toll—toll—toll,
Toll—toll—toll—toll.
We hope there was gold in Sir Francis’s soul.
And the people all turned from the long, windy quay,—
With tears turned away from the May-pleasant sea,
And talked of the brave old sea-lord who had died