Here's a letter from Robin, father,
A letter from over the sea,
I was sure that the spark in the wick last night
Meant there was one for me ;
And I laugh'd to see the postman's face
Look in at the dairy park, 
For you said it was so woman-like 
To put my trust in a spark:—

" Dear father and mother, and granny, 
I write on the breech of a gun ;
And think as I sit at the port-hole, 
And look at the setting sun-
Father's smoking his pipe beside you, 
While you 'holy-stone' the porch;
Or are getting clean rigging ready 
For to-morrow's cruise to church.

" You musn't be hard on the writing, 
For what with ropes and with tar, 
My fingers won't crook as they ought to, 
And spelling is harder far;
And every minute a lurch comes
And spoils the look of my i's,
And I blot 'em instead of dot 'em,
And I can't get my words of a size.

" Tell Bessie I don't forget her, 
But every Saturday night,
When we're chatting of home in the twilight, 
And our pipes are all alight,
And I'm asked to toast the lass I love, 
I name sweet Bessie Green."
(O, father, to think of his doing that, 
And the monkey scarce fifteen !!

" And, granny, the yarns you spin all day,
In the corner off the door,
Won't be half so long and so tough as mine,
When I see you all ashore.
You maybe won't swallow flying-fish, 
But I'll bring you one or two ;
And some Maltese lace for topsail gear, 
And a fan for you know who.

" Then good-bye to each dear face at home,
' Til I press it with my lips,
While you pray each night for 'ships at sea,' 
And 'God speed all sea ships!'
I smile as I rock in my hammock, 
Though storms way shriek and strain;
For I feel when we pray for each other, 
We're sure to meet again. "