Ere yet, long ago, we were spliced, Bonny Blue,
(Silvery it gleams down the moon-glade o’ time,
Ah, sugar in the bowl and berries in the prime!)
Coxswain I o’ the Commodore’s crew,—­
Under me the fellows that manned his fine gig,
Spinning him ashore, a king in full fig. 
Chirrupy even when crosses rubbed me,
Bridegroom Dick lieutenants dubbed me. 
Pleasant at a yarn, Bob o’ Linkum in a song,
Diligent in duty and nattily arrayed,
Favored I was, wife, and fleeted right along;
And though but a tot for such a tall grade,
A high quartermaster at last I was made.

All this, old lassie, you have heard before,
But you listen again for the sake e’en o’ me;
No babble stales o’ the good times o’ yore
To Joan, if Darby the babbler be.

Babbler?—­O’ what?  Addled brains, they
    forget! 
O—­quartermaster I; yes, the signals set,
Hoisted the ensign, mended it when frayed,
Polished up the binnacle, minded the helm,
And prompt every order blithely obeyed. 
To me would the officers say a word cheery—­
Break through the starch o’ the quarter-deck
    realm;
His coxswain late, so the Commodore’s pet. 
Ay, and in night-watches long and weary,
Bored nigh to death with the navy etiquette,
Yearning, too, for fun, some younker, a cadet,
Dropping for time each vain bumptious trick,
Boy-like would unbend to Bridegroom Dick. 
But a limit there was—­a check, d’ ye see: 
Those fine young aristocrats knew their degree.

Well, stationed aft where their lordships
    keep,—­
Seldom going forward excepting to sleep,—­
I, boozing now on by-gone years,
My betters recall along with my peers. 
Recall them?  Wife, but I see them plain: 
Alive, alert, every man stirs again. 
Ay, and again on the lee-side pacing,
My spy-glass carrying, a truncheon in show,
Turning at the taffrail, my footsteps retracing,
Proud in my duty, again methinks I go. 
And Dave, Dainty Dave, I mark where he
    stands,
Our trim sailing-master, to time the high-noon,
That thingumbob sextant perplexing eyes and
    hands,
Squinting at the sun, or twigging o’ the moon;
Then, touching his cap to Old Chock-a-Block
Commanding the quarter-deck,—­“Sir, twelve
    o’clock.”

Where sails he now, that trim sailing-master,
Slender, yes, as the ship’s sky-s’l pole? 
Dimly I mind me of some sad disaster—­
Dainty Dave was dropped from the navy-roll! 
And ah, for old Lieutenant Chock-a-Block—­
Fast, wife, chock-fast to death’s black dock! 
Buffeted about the obstreperous ocean,
Fleeted his life, if lagged his promotion. 
Little girl, they are all, all gone, I think,
Leaving Bridegroom Dick here with lids that
    wink.