Look!
Through the port comes the moon-shine astray!
It tips the guard's cutlass and silvers this nook; But ‘twill die in the dawning of Billy's last day.
Ay, ay, all is up; and I must up too early in the morning, aloft from below.
On an empty stomach, now, never would it do.
They'll give me a nibble – bit of biscuit ere I go.
Sure, a messmate will reach me the last parting cup; butturning heads away from the hoist and the belay, heaven knows who will have the running of me up!
No pipe to those halyards – but ain't it all sham?
A blur's in my eyes; it is dreaming that I am.
But Donald he has promised to stand by the plank, so I'll shake a friendly hand ere I sink.
But no!
It is dead then I'll be, come to think.
They'll lash me in hammock, drop me deep, fathoms down, fathoms – how I'll dream fast asleep.
I feel it stealing now...
Roll me over fair.
I'm sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist.

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