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Tim the Tacket.
A Lyrical Ballad, Supposed to Be Written By W. W.
A bark is lying on the sands,
No rippling wave is sparkling near her;
She seems unmanned of all her hands—
There's not a soul on board to steer her!
'Tis strange to see a ship-shape thing
Upon a lonely beach thus lying,
While mystic winds for ever sing
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing.
Oh! can it be a spectre-ship,
Forwearied of the storm and ocean,
That here hath ended its last trip,
And sought repose from ceaseless motion?
I deem amiss: for vonder, see,
A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket—
A little man with face of glee—
His neighbours call him Tim the Tacket.
