It is a Tarry Sailor-man
Doth shift his quid and sigh;
And moping o'er his Injin Ink,
He spits, and pipes his eye.

In all their queer variety,
Perusing, one by one,
Spars, anchors, ensigns, figureheads,
His fokesel chums have done.

Around his arms, all down his back,
Betwixt his shoulder-blades,
Are Peg and Nan and Patsy Ann,
And mer and other maids,

And just below his collar-bones,
Amidships on his chest,
He shows a sun in blue and red,
A-rising in the West.

A bit abaft a pirate craft,
Upon his larboard side,
There is a thing he made himself,
The day his Nancy died.

Mayhap it be a lock of hair,
Mayhap a kile o' rope;
He says it is a true-love knot,
And so it is, we hope.

Naught recks he, that bold bosin's mate,
What shape it wear to you,
With love alert, and fist expert,
He stuck it; — so he knew.

To " Cap'n Cuttle, Mariner, "
His sugar-tongs and spoons
Not dearer than that rose-pink heart,
Transfixed with two harpoons;

And underneath, a grave in blue,
A gravestone all in red:
" Here lies, all right, Poor Tom's delight.
God save the lass — she's dead! "

Permit that Tarry Sailor man
To shift his quid and sigh;
Nor chide him if he cusses some,
For piping of his eye.

Few sadder tokens are the heart's,
Than, traced at first in pink,
And pricked till all the picture smarts,
Are fixed with Injin Ink.