Ever so far and far away,
Down in the hollow by the bay,
Where the beach is dry and the rocks are high,
Under the sand three dead men lie.
There they lie alow, low, low,
Nor hear the cockrel’ s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,
There they lie alow, low, low.
One was drowned in yonder sea,
One was shot as it may be,
One was left on the beach to die,
But all in the hollow sleeping lie.
There they lie alow, low, low,
Nor wake at the cockrel’ s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,
There they lie alow, low, low.
Sometimes when the moon is bright
You can see the three, like gulls in flight,
Flitting along above the waves,
Or sitting and talking on their graves,
Where they lie alow, low, low,
Nor hear the cockrel’ s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing,
There they lie alow, low, low.
There was a pause — when some one merrily
Struck up a song which all have known of old;
How Billy Taylor’ s sweetheart went to sea,
And how she fought in an engagement bold:
And as the talk ran on of female sailors
Who’ ve gone to sea in men-of-war, or whalers,
Until I spoke and said: “I know a lay
About a Spanish lady, old lang syne,
Who, as a sailor, wished to sail away —
The words are by another and not mine:”