I was a dealer in stocks and shares,
    And you in butters and teas,
And we both abandoned our own affairs
    And took to the dreadful seas.

Wet and worry about our ways—
    Panic, onset, and flight—
Had us in charge for a thousand days
    And a thousand-year-long night.

We saw more than the nights could hide—
    More than the waves could keep—
And—certain faces over the side
    Which do not go from our sleep.

We were more tired than words can tell
    While the pied craft fled by,
And the swinging mounds of the Western swell
    Hoisted us heavens-high . . ,

Now there is nothing—not even our rank—
    To witness what we have been;
And I am returned to my Walworth Bank;
    And you to your margarine