Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low—
And on that night, when all the crew, The memory of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee, And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burden of my song shall be: Blow high, blow low—
Dibdin.
[XXXVIII]
THE PERFECT SAILOR
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty, But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed, For, though his body's under hatches His soul has gone aloft.
Dibdin.
[XXXIX]
THE DESERTER
If sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, Could more than drinking My cares compose, A cure for sorrow From sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow Would end my woes. But as in wailing There's nought availing, And Death unfailing Will strike the blow, Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go.