“And Dick, though pale as any ghost,
          Had only said to me,
        ‘We’re all right now, old lad!’ when up
          A wave rolled—­drenched us three—­
        One lurch, and then I felt the chill
          And roar of blinding sea.

        “I don’t remember much but that: 
          You see I’m safe and sound;
        I have been wrecked four times since then—­
          Seen queer sights, I’ll be bound. 
        I think folks sleep beneath the deep
          As calm as underground.”

        “But Dick and Dolly?” “Well, Poor Dick! 
          I saw him rise and cling
        Unto the gunwale of the boat—­
          Floating keel up—­and sing
        Out loud, ’Where’s Doll?’—­I hear him yet
          As clear as anything.

        “‘Where’s Dolly?’ I no answer made;
          For she dropped like a stone
        Down through the deep sea; and it closed: 
          The little thing was gone! 
        ‘Where’s Doll?’ three times; then Dick loosed hold,
          And left me there alone.

* * * * *

        “It’s five-and-forty year since then,”
          Muttered the boatman grey,
        And drew his rough hand o’er his eyes,
          And stared across the bay;
        “Just five-and-forty year,” and not
          Another word did say.

        “But Dolly?” ask the children all,
          As they about him stand. 
        “Poor Doll! she floated back next tide
          With sea-weed in her hand. 
        She’s buried o’er that hill you see,
          In a churchyard on land.

        “But where Dick lies, God knows!  He’ll find
          Our Dick at Judgment-day.” 
        The boatman fell to mending nets,
          The boys ran off to play;
        And the sun shone and the waves danced
          In quiet Swanage Bay.

BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

        “O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?”
          Cried a whaler in Baffin’s Bay. 
        “To know if between the land and the pole
          I may find a broad sea-way.”

        “I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN,
          As you would live and thrive;
        For between the land and the frozen pole
          No man may sail alive.”

        But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
          And spoke unto his men: 
        “Half England is wrong, if he is right;
          Bear off to westward then.”

        “O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?”
          Cried the little Esquimaux. 
        “Between your land and the polar star
          My goodly vessels go.”

        “Come down, if you would journey there,”
          The little Indian said;
        “And change your cloth for fur clothing,
          Your vessel for a sled.”