By F. J. E. W.
March 8, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 23. Page 1
Oh, boatman, ply your slender oars,
And speed your tiny bark,
To where the distant shore lies dim,
Oh, haste, ere it be dark—
For winds may blow and torrents pour,
And swamp the fragile bark!
Upon the shore out in the West,
A maiden waits for me,
Then bend your oars, and speed your bark,
Across the gloomy sea,
And land me safe, before the storm
Engulfeth you and me!
Oh, swifter, swifter strain your arms,
Pull lustily your oars,
And twenty golden guineas for
Your labor shall by yours!
As best my pulses to and fro,
Oh, boatman, ply your oars!
A maiden waits in the storm,
And waves her dainty hand:
A bark drifts towards the Western shore,
And grounds upon the strand:
In vain she looketh for its freight,
In vain the sea is spanned!
Oh, maiden! Wring your dainty hands,
And sob in piteous wail—
It will not bring your lover back,
And prayers will not avail,
For fathoms deep he lieth now,
Beneath the sounding gale!