Our John was a sailor, Sailor John, A grizzly old sailor of Provincetown Bay, And one queer old tale that he used to tell By the bright fire-dogs to the boys now gone, And the fisher-folk—I remember well. He would tell it to us in his odd old way, After the revels on Christmas Day, And at evening after the hours of play. He would lock his hands and strike them upon His knees, like this: _chink, chink, chink, chink_. It sounds like coins of gold, I know, It sounds like coins of gold—but oh, When you open your hands there is nothing there But a goldless chasm of empty air!— ’Twas fool’s gold all. III. Our John the sailor, Sailor John, He used to tell the tale this way, In a very slow and deliberate way, After the storms upon Provincetown Bay: “’Tis about Sir Francis Drake of the Tay, Who was born in a hut beside the Tavy, A famous salt in Elizabeth’s day, The old sea-dog of the British Navy. He guarded the coast of England well, And haunted the seas, that old invader, And gathered spoils from the Spanish war, From the Isles of June to Cristobel, And flouted King Philip off Trafalgar, And scattered the ships of the Great Armada. The first to sail the Pacific Sea, And first to smoke tobacco was he. “And he said at last, ‘Our coast is hilly, And the northern seas are dark and chilly: I’m growing old and my veins are cold, But still my soul is athirst for gold. Let me go once more to the Spanish Main, To isles of the sun, and the golden rain, And rob the galleons old of Spain.’ He went and died ’mid the isles, ah me! And his white ship scudded across the sea, The ‘Golden Hinde’ in the western wind, And never again to his home came he— But only his gold brought home again. ’Twas fool’s gold all. IV. “Old Plymouth stands by the windy sea, As lovely a city as ever was seen. And fair are the churches of Plymouth dean,[7] And tall was the church that stood on the quay.