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.’