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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,
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