He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies, With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes: "Bill, he's dead," was all they said; "he's dead, 'n' there he lies."
The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail: "Just lash him up wi' some holystone in a clout o' rotten sail, 'N', rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye're slower'n a bloody snail!"
When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel, We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel. "It's rough about Bill," the fo'c's'le said, "we'll have to stand his wheel."