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199
POOR JACK.
I'm going away to the seas,—poor Jack!
I'm going away to sea.
But, alas! to whom can I thence look back?
Or who will look after me?
I'm going away to sea.
But, alas! to whom can I thence look back?
Or who will look after me?
My father and mother are both no more;
My brother is in the deep;
My sister, the rose of our native shore,
Is under the clods asleep.
My brother is in the deep;
My sister, the rose of our native shore,
Is under the clods asleep.
The snug little home that we called our own,
Tall thistles and weeds surround;
Forsaken and drear is our threshold stone;—
It seems like a stranger's ground!
Tall thistles and weeds surround;
Forsaken and drear is our threshold stone;—
It seems like a stranger's ground!
The robin that sang in our green old oak,
And waked me to hail the dawn,
Like a voice in the dreams that her carol broke,
For ever is hushed and gone.
And waked me to hail the dawn,
Like a voice in the dreams that her carol broke,
For ever is hushed and gone.
The crickets about the old well-curb trill
A dirge to the star-lit sky;
While, mournful, the plaint of the whippoorwill
Comes in, from the copse hard by.
A dirge to the star-lit sky;
While, mournful, the plaint of the whippoorwill
Comes in, from the copse hard by.
The willows bend, shadowy, o'er the stream
So bright in my joyous day;
And sighing, forbid it a moonlight gleam,
To silver its darkling way.
So bright in my joyous day;
And sighing, forbid it a moonlight gleam,
To silver its darkling way.
200
My home,—it is sad as a church-yard scene!
For ever its spells are o'er:
The billowy ocean must roll between
Poor Jack and his native shore.
For ever its spells are o'er:
The billowy ocean must roll between
Poor Jack and his native shore.
I'll reef the wild sail, and I'll mount the shroud,
When stormy the winds awake,
While lonely my spirit sits, wrapt in cloud,
And fain would my heart-strings break.
When stormy the winds awake,
While lonely my spirit sits, wrapt in cloud,
And fain would my heart-strings break.
I'll drown in the roar of the deep my moan,—
My tears in the briny sea;
For now there 's no eye o'er our cold hearth-stone
To beam, or to weep for me!
My tears in the briny sea;
For now there 's no eye o'er our cold hearth-stone
To beam, or to weep for me!
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