He seiz'd the quid,--'twas hard and dry,
The last one in its nook;
The beggar'd sailor heav'd a sigh,--
Despair was in his look.
And have I fought, and bled in vain,
Are all my comforts o'er--
When shall I see thy like again,
Thou last one of my store.
High and dry I've kept thee here,
In hopes of getting aid;
My cruise, alas, is lost, I fear--
Oh why was BACCE made!
I've borne all weathers, wind and rain,
And patiently I bore--
When shall I see thy like again,
Thou last one of my store.
His gaze was on the muddy ground,
And mis'ry in his eye;
Sudden he sprang with eager bound,
On something glitt'ring nigh:
A sovereign's aid, 'tis very plain,
Thank heaven, I ask no more;
Soon shall I see thy like again,
Thou last one of my store.