But we silently gazed on the face of the lost
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,
And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him alone,
With his wife that the parson hath made him.