Juan embarked—the ship got under way,
The wind was fair, the water passing rough;
A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,
As I, who’ve crossed it oft, know well enough;
And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray
Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough;
And there he stood to take, and take again,
His first—perhaps his last—farewell of Spain.
I can’t but say it is an awkward sight
To see one’s native land receding through