Snarleyyow, or, the Dog Fiend. Фредерик Марриет

      And do you not know that that is a sin?

      If you sailors will ever be swigging your can,

      To heaven you surely will never get in.

      (Hiccup.) Parson, you may as well be mum,

      'Tis only on shore I'm this way seen;

      But oceans of punch, and rivers of rum,

      Await the sailor at Fidler's Green.

      At Fidler's Green, where seamen true,

      When here they've done their duty,

      The bowl of grog shall still renew,

      And pledge to love and beauty.

      "Well reeled off, Billy," cried Jemmy Ducks, finishing with a flourish on his fiddle, and a refrain of the air. I don't think we shall meet him and his dog at Fidler's Green--heh!"

      "No," replied Short, taking his pipe from his lip.

      "No, no, Jemmy, a seaman true means one true in heart as well as in knowledge; but, like a blind fiddler, he'll be led by his dog somewhere else."

      "From vere de dog did come from," observed Jansen.

      The band now struck up again, and played a waltz--a dance new to our country, but older than the heptarchy. Jansen, with his pipe in his mouth, took one of the women by the waist, and steered round the room about as leisurely as a capstern heaving up. Dick Short also took another, made four turns, reeled up against a Dutchman who was doing it with sang froid, and then suddenly left his partner and dropped into his chair.

      "I say, Jemmy," said Obadiah Coble, "why don't you give a girl a twist round?"

      "Because I can't, Oby; my compasses arn't long enough to describe a circle. You and I are better here, old boy. I, because I've very little legs, and you, because you havn't a leg to stand upon."

      "Very true--not quite so young as I was forty years ago. Howsomever I mean this to be my last vessel. I shall bear up for one of the London dock-yards as a rigger."

      "Yes, that'll do; only keep clear of the girt-lines, you're too stiff for that."

      "No, that would not exactly tell; I shall pick my own work, and that's where I can bring my tarry trousers to an anchor--mousing the mainstay, or puddening the anchor, with the best of any. Dick, lend us a bit of 'baccy."

      Short pulled out his box without saying a word. Coble took a quid, and Short thrust the box again into his pocket.

      In the meantime the waltz continued, and being a favourite dance, there were about fifty couples going round and round the room. Such was the variety in the dress, country, language, and appearance of the parties collected, that you might have imagined it a masquerade. It was, however, getting late, and Frau Vandersloosh had received the intimation of the people of the police who superintend these resorts, that it was the time for shutting up; so that, although the widow was sorry on her own account to disperse so merry and so thirsty a party as they were now becoming, so soon as the waltz was ended the musicians packed up their instruments and departed.

      This was a signal for many, but by no means for all, to depart; for music being over, and the house doors closed, a few who remained, provided they made no disturbance, were not interfered with by the police. Among those who stayed were the party from the Yungfrau, one or two American, and some Prussian sailors. Having closed up together,

      "Come," cried Jemmy, "now that we are quiet again, let's have another song; and who is it to be--Dick Short?"

      "Short, my boy, come, you must sing."

      "No," replied Short.

      "Yes, yes--one verse," said Spurey.

      "He never sings more," replied Jemmy Ducks, "so he must give us that. Come, Short."

      "Yes," replied Short, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and wetting his lips with the grog.

      Short stay apeak was the anchor,

      We had but a short minute more,

      In short, I no longer could banker,

      For short was the cash in my store.

      I gave one short look,

      As Poll heaved a short sigh

      One short hug I took,

      Short the matter cut I,

      And off I went to sea.

      "Go on, Dick."

      "No," replied Short, resuming his pipe.

      "Well, then, chorus, my boys."

      Very good song, and very well sung,

      Jolly companions every one;

      We all are here for mirth and glee,

      We all are here for jollity.

      Very good song, and very well sung,

      Jolly companions every one;

      Put your hats on, and keep your heads warm,

      A little more liquor will do us no harm.

      "Now then, Jemmy Ducks, it's round to you again. Strike up, fiddle and all."

      "Well, here goes," said Jemmy Ducks.

      The captain stood on the carronade--first lieutenant, says he,

      Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me:

      I havn't the gift of the gab, my sons--because I'm bred to the sea,

      That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

      Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,

      I've fought 'gainst every odds--but I've gained the victory.

      That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she,

      'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture me;

      I havn't the gift of the gab, my boys, so each man to his gun,

      If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

      Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,

      I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.

      We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough,

      I little thought, said he, that your men were of such stuff;

      The captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he,

      I havn't the gift of the gab, Mounsieur, but polite I wish to be.

      Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,

      I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.

      Our captain sent for all of us; my merry men, said he,

      I havn't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be;

      You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun,

      If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

      Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea,

      I'll fight 'gainst every odds--and I'll gain the victory.

      Chorus--Very good song, and very well sung,

      Jolly companions every one;

      We all are here for mirth and glee,

      We all are here for jollity.

      Very good song, and very well sung,