And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best
To look used to the scene around him.
Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hurried them 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.