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Poem	He sleeps beside me in the bed; Upon my breast I hold his head; Oh how I would that we were wed, For he sails in the morning. I wish I had not been so kind; But love is fain and passion blind, While out of sight is out of mind, And he ships in the morning. I feel his bairn stir in my womb; Poor wee one, born to bitter doom; How dreary dark will be the gloom, When he goes in the morning! A sailor lad has need to court A loving lass in every port; To him it's just a bit of sport . . . My heart-break's in the morning.
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