He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill;
A book and likewise preacher.
With any soul, in a game of skill,
He’ll prove your over-reacher.
The reason is, his brains are bent
On doing things right single.
You’d wish for them when pitching your tent
At night in a whirly dingle!
So, off we go, cries Roving Tim,
And on we go, old raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.