[Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.]
Farewell the strand,
The sails expand
Farewell the land
Farewell, old home where apples swing!
Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!
Of Customs' clerks who laugh
"Farewell!" We'll quaff
To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet!
Farewell, my dear - the ship flies fleet!
The fog shuts out the last fond peep,
As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep.
Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird!
The whistling wind alone is heard: