There came an old sailor 
Who sat to sup 
Under the trees 
Of the Golden Cup. 

Beer in a mug 
And a slice of cheese 
With a hunk of bread 
He munched at his ease. 

Then in the summer 
Dusk he lit 
A little black pipe, 
And sucked at it. 

He thought of his victuals, 
Of ships, the sea. 
Of his home in the West, 
And his children three. 

And he stared and stared 
To where, afar, 
The lighthouse gleamed 
At the harbour bar ; 

Till his pipe grew cold, 
And down on the board 
He laid his head, 
And snored, snored, snored.