THE THREE DEAD MEN
Los Muertos
Ever so and away,
Down in the by the bay,
Where the beach is and the are high,
Under the three men lie.
There they alow, low, low,
Nor the cockrel’s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is blowing,
There they alow, low, low.
One was in sea,
One was as it may be,
One was left on the beach to die,
But all in the sleeping lie.
There they alow, low, low,
Nor wake at the cockrel’s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is blowing,
There they alow, low, low.
Sometimes when the moon is bright
You can see the three, like in flight,
Flitting along above the waves,
Or and talking on their graves,
Where they alow, low, low,
Nor the cockrel’s crow.
Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is blowing,
There they alow, low, low.
There was a pause—when some one merrily
Struck up a song which all have of old;
How Billy Taylor’s to sea,
And how she in an 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 syne,
Who, as a sailor, to sail away—
The are by another and not mine:”
