Bill

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.’