H! sing me a song of the wild, wide sea,

Of the peril of rocks and storms—

How mariners bold as bold can be

Face Death in a hundred forms

Methinks—whenever I hear you sing—

That I rather should relish that kind

of thing.

But can you not carol a heart-felt lay,

On the pleasures and pains of love—

A melody soft as a breeze in May,

And pure as the skies above?

I think—whenever I hear you sing—

That there may be a charm in that kind of thing.

Come, chirrup me gaily a drinking-stave,

Of the bowl and its deep delights—

A hymn to old Bacchus, the god that gave

Such mirth to our festive nights.

But stop—why trouble yourself to sing,

As I know I am good at that kind of thing?