The forepeak raked the stars
As we drove upon the Scars,
Then dipped into a boiling broth of hell:
With his arms about my neck,
I was sinking with the wreck,
When I drew my little knife and used it well—

In his thrapple to the haft
Sheathed my gully, and I laughed
As I felt his death-grip loosen round my own;
And I struck out for the land,
And was slung upon the strand
By a wave that took and tossed me like a stone.

Stunned and senseless there I lay
Till I roused at blink of day
To feel a leaden burden on my chest;
And as I strove to rise
I looked down into the eyes
Of the dead man's head that lolled upon my breast.

Stark and staring he lay there,
And the waves had stripped him bare
Ere they'd flung his broken body over me:
And I rose as if in sleep,
Howked a hole, and dark and deep
I buried him beside the Northern sea—

Rolled a rock above his grave
Lest a sudden scouring wave
Should scoop his naked carcase from the sand:
Then I left him—so I thought—
Dead and done with, and I sought
Food and shelter from the people of the land—

Left him buried … But for me
There's no sleep by land or sea,
For always when I'm dropping off to rest
I am startled wide awake,
And all night I lie and quake
With the dead-weight of a corpse upon my chest.

Yet never in this life
Have I used the butcher's knife,
Never sailed the seas nor left my native shore;
And I know not from what deep
Stirs the doom that breaks my sleep
To keep lykewake with the dead for evermore.