And while my boy was lying dead,
My wife’s last breath as yet unfled,
The city papers reeked with chat
Of ‘pirate bands on Barnegat.’
My name was branded as a thief,
When I was almost mad with grief;
And what d’ye think they made me feel,
When the last falsehood ground its heel,—
‘I had rowed out, that night, to steal!’
“No! if I ever row again