I’LL sing you a song, not very long,
But the story somewhat new
Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did,
To his Poll was always true.
He sailed away in a galliant ship
From the port of old Bris_tol_,
And the last words he uttered,
As his hankercher he fluttered,
Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”
His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It’s no matter what you do
If your heart be only true:
And his heart _was_ true to Poll.
’Twas a wreck. Willi_am_, on shore he swam,
And looked about for an inn;
When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,
Came up with a kind of grin:
“Oh, marry _me_, and a king you’ll be,
And in a palace loll;
Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”
So he gave his _hand_, did Billy,
But his _heart_ was true to Poll.
Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led
As the King of the Kikeryboos;
His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,
And he wore a pair of over-_shoes_;
He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,
Whose beauties I cannot here extol;
One day they all revolted,
So he back to Bristol bolted,
For his _heart_ was true to Poll.
His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It’s no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true:
And his heart _was_ true to Poll.
_Frank C. Burnand._