The moon is on the sea,
Willow!
The wind blows towards the lee,
Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
No Lady Jane for me,
Willow!
She says, “’Twere folly quite,
Willow!
For me to wed a wight,
Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast”;
And possibly she’s right,
Willow!
His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE),
He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
From thus expostulating:
“Lay aft, you lubber, do!
What’s come to that young man, JOE?
Belay!—’vast heaving! you!
Do kindly stop that banjo!
“I wish, I do—O lor’!—
You’d shipped aboard a trader:
_Are_ you a sailor or
A negro serenader?”
But still the stricken lad,
Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
His aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty had
Been JOYCE’S chiefest beauty;
Says he, “I love that lad,
But duty, damme! duty!
“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,
Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
A good six dozen lashes!”
But JOSEPH had a mate,
A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young JOE!
I’ll tell you what I’m arter—
To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And say you love her dearly.”
And JOE said (weeping low),
“I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that Lord
Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
An interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll,
“My Captain (wot’s a Tartar)
Guv JOE twelve months’ black-hole,
For lovering your darter.
“He loves MISS LADY JANE
(I own she is his betters),
But if you’ll jine them twain,
They’ll free him from his fetters.
“And if so be as how
You’ll let her come aboard ship,
I’ll take her with me now.”
“Get out!” remarked his Lordship.
That honest tar repaired
To JOE upon the billow,
And told him how he’d fared.
JOE only whispered, “Willow!”
And for that dreadful crime
(Young sailors, learn to shun it)
He’s working out his time;
In six months he’ll have done it.
TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE.
BY A MISERABLE WRETCH
ROLL on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
Roll on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
Roll on!
It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;
It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;
It’s true my prospects all look blue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never _you_ mind!
Roll on!
[_It rolls on_.