 | The lion's cub |  |
THE CAPTAIN'S SONG.
In my sluggish gait,As it drags along of late,
Is the roll of the Captain on the deck;
Or the lurch of the sailor in the hold,
Courageous from of old,
In the storm and in the wreck;
In the rising, setting suns,
The thunder of the guns—
With a heave-and-a-ho
And a loud rumbelow;
In every sort of breeze,
On southern, northern seas,
Like a dancing leg,
At Old Wapping Stairs,
Where Meg, and Poll, and Peg
Are dancing unawares,
Like you, Bess, and me,
Near the margent of the sea;
76
And merry men are found,
But sober, or tipsy,
Not the Scholar Gypsy,
Who forsook his learned books
For forests, streams, and nooks,
And was robbed, or was hanged, or was drowned,
Two hundred years ago—
With his heave and his ho,
And his mournful rombelow,
With not a soul to know,
Or to toll his passing knell,
His Ding-Dong-Bell.
| The lion's cub | |