She knew, too well, the old man’s way,
Unconscious of her fun.
The wind had freshened to a gale,
The boat tossed on the sea,
“Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale?
Why talk’st thou not to me?”
“Speak, maiden!” once again he cried;
“Art ailing? Tell me quick.”
And but the drooping maid replied,
“Oh, I—I feel so sick.”