O then I thought my pockets to fill!
For the red blood flowed and I robbed the mail.
1838.
The hemp-fields waving in the breeze—
With hey! the ravens. O how they croak!
And the birds that hung from the gallows-trees,
Might rede me then that it was no joke.
1849.
But now the lark tra lira sings!
A Navy-islander bold am I;