Then think of poor Polly's tears,
For ah! poor Polly's his wife.
Like the sailor he holds up his hand,
Distress'd on the dashing wave;
To die a dry death at land
Is as bad as a wat'ry grave.
And alas, poor Polly!
Alack, and well-a-day!
Before I was in love,
Oh! every month was May.