When our frigate came to from a cruise in the west,
       And her yards were all squared, her sails neatly furled,
     Young Tom clasped his Nancy, so loved, to his breast,
       As if but themselves there was none in the world. 
     Between two of the guns they were fondly at play,
       All billing and kissing, forgetting all sorrow;
     “Love, like cash,” says I, “Nan, may all go in a day,
       While you hug him so close—­don’t forget there’s to-morrow.”

     When a hurricane swept us smack smooth fore and aft,
       When we dashed on the rock, and we floundered on shore,
     As we sighed for the loss of our beautiful craft,
       Convinced that the like we should never see more,
     Says I, “My good fellows,” as huddled together,
       They shivered and shook, each phiz black with sorrow,
     “Remember, it’s not to be always foul weather,
       So with ill-luck to-day—­don’t forget there’s to-morrow!”

“And not a bad hint, neither, Mr Salisbury,” said Nancy, when Jemmy ceased.  “You sailors never think of to-morrow, more’s the pity.  You’re no better than overgrown babies.”

“I’m not much better, at all events,” replied Jemmy, laughing:  “however, I’m as God made me, and so all’s right.”

“That’s my own darling Jemmy,” said Moggy, “and if you’re content, and I’m content, who is to say a word, I should like to know?  You may be a rum one to look at, but I think them fellows found you but a rum customer the other night.”

“Don’t put so much rum in your discourse, Moggy, you make me long for a glass of grog.”

“Then your mouth will find the water,” rejoined Nancy; “but, however, singing is dry work, and I am provided.  Pass my basket aft, old gentleman, and we will find Mr Salisbury something with which to whet his whistle.”  The boatman handed the basket to Nancy, who pulled out a bottle and glass, which she filled, and handed to Jemmy.

“Now, Mr Salisbury, I expect some more songs,” said Nancy.

“And you shall have them, mistress; but I’ve heard say that you’ve a good pipe of your own; suppose that you give me one in return, that will be but fair play.”

“Not exactly, for you’ll have the grog in the bargain,” replied Nancy.

“Put my fiddle against the grog, and then all’s square.”

“I have not sung for many a day,” replied Nancy, musing, and looking up at the bright twinkling stars.  “I once sang, when I was young—­and happy—­I then sang all the day long; that was really singing, for it came from the merriness of my heart;” and Nancy paused.  “Yes, I have sung since, and often, for they made me sing; but ’twas when my heart was heavy—­or when its load had been, for a time, forgotten and drowned in wine.  That was not singing, at least not the singing of bygone days.”

“But those times are bygone too, Mistress Nancy,” said Moggy; “you have now your marriage lines, and are made an honest woman.”