5
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life had doff'd;
For, tho' his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
MY NANNIE, O,
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors and mosses many, O,
the wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal,
And o'er the hill to Nannie, O.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young
Nae artfu' wiles to win
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
The wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her hear is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O;
