behaves,
     Nor shiver when ’tis airy;
     But comes a breeze, all you are on waves,
     Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey! 
     So, now for next, cries Roving Tim,
     And croak, my jolly raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     III

     Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer,
     To make a man consider. 
     If you were up with the auctioneer,
     I’d be a handsome bidder. 
     But wedlock clips the rover’s wing;
     She tricks him fly to spider;
     And when we get to fights in the Ring,
     It’s trumps when you play outsider. 
     So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim,
     And croak, my jolly raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     IV

     Along my winding way I know
     A shady dell that’s winking;
     The very corner for Self and Co
     To do a world of thinking. 
     And shall I this? and shall I that? 
     Till Nature answers, ne’ther! 
     Strike match and light your pipe in your hat,
     Rejoicing in sound shoe-leather! 
     So lead along, cries Roving Tim,
     And croak, my jolly raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     V

     A cunning hand ’ll hand you bread,
     With freedom for your capers. 
     I’m not so sure of a cunning head;
     It steers to pits or vapours. 
     But as for Life, we’ll bear in sight
     The lesson Nature teaches;
     Regard it in a sailoring light,
     And treat it like thirsty leeches. 
     So, fly your jib, cries Roving Tim,
     And top your boom, old raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     VI

     She’ll take, to please her dame and dad,
     The shopman nicely shaven. 
     She’ll learn to think o’ the marching lad
     When perchers show they’re craven. 
     You say the shopman piles a heap,
     While I perhaps am fasting;
     And bless your wits, it haunts him in sleep,
     His tin-kettle chance of lasting! 
     So hail the road, cries Roving Tim,
     And hail the rain, old raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     VII

     He’s half a wife, yon pecker bill;
     A book and likewise preacher. 
     With any soul, in a game of skill,
     He’ll prove your over-reacher. 
     The reason is, his brains are bent
     On doing things right single. 
     You’d wish for them when pitching your tent
     At night in a whirly dingle! 
     So, off we go, cries Roving Tim,
     And on we go, old raven! 
     The wind according to its whim
     Is in and out of haven.

     VIII