Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad;
Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea,
Poor dying, drowning sailors had
A better friend than she.
"Billows may tumble, winds may roar,
Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch:
But never, never, nevermore
This deed shall mortal match!"
Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head,
She blush'd as girls when lovers woo:
"I have not done a thing," she said,
"More than I ought to do."