Youth's the season made for joys

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; and now I know it.

So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er,— The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.

Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand.