Dark flew the scud along the wave,
The booming thunders rolled on high;
“All hands aloft, the storm to brave”—
At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry.
On deck sprung every soul apace,
But one—bereft of human joy—
Within a hammock’s narrow space
Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.”
Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail,