  He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies, With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes: ‘Bill, he’s dead,’ was all they said; ‘he’s dead, ’n’ there he lies.’ The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail: ‘Just lash him up wi’ some holystone in a clout o’ rotten sail, ’N’, rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye’re slower’n a bloody snail!’ When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel, We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel. ‘It’s rough about Bill,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘we’ll have to stand his wheel.’ |
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