Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though “lying low,”
How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot;
And so below he’d “dowse the glim,”—