THE CRUISE OF THE “PORKYPINE”
Being as I wuz gettin’
To be in the seer and yeller,
I didn’t expec to sail no more
But to stay at ’ome an’ meller;
When my ole Capting Mark
He bellers over the phone:
“Wot, ho! Mate, bizzy with yer kit,
We sails fer parts unknown.
I’ve shipped me crew,
An’ a goodish slew,
Of the best prog I ken afford.
We sails termorrer at seven bells,
Screw yer nut and git aboard.”
So this is ’ow I comes to sail
As Mate of the Porkypine.
I gets aboard and we pulls out
At a quarter to arf past nine.
When I comes to look over the crew,
Fer the Capting leaves all to me,
I finds as tough a lot o’ swabs
As ever put to sea.
The cook were a ginger-colored duck,
Hailin’ frum Bosting taown,
He sartinly cud cook a bit
An’ he cud swar me down.
He wuz tall an’ lanky an’ thin,
With a mouth like a gash in a pie,
At cookin’ an’ swarin’ he were good,
Wot else ye cud stick in yer eye.
Then there were the dorg,
Which Wiggles were her name;
She were shipped as Mascot
An’ acted well as that same.
Then fer a general utility ’and,
We ’ad the Scientific
To swob the decks and dishes,
Which ’is duties was not specific.
When all wuz cleared away,
An’ everything was snug
He amuses hisself with a bottle
O’ dope, a-pottin’ fly and bug.
I’ve hearn tell of a bug house
But never seen one afore,
An’ I’ll be swat in the neck if it ain’t
The rummiest game off shore.
Then there were Sid, a bit of a kid,
Who signs as a Ginger Beer
To run the machine, save gasolene,
An’ we let the skipper steer.
These and me and the skipper was the crew,
Of the good ship Porkypine,
And Lord wot a time I ’ad
A makin’ ’em tow the line.
Well, we sails away on
A werry fine day, I think it were in June,
The Porkypine makin’ her eight mile,
So we gets there pretty soon.
Up, up we goes the Rideau Canal,
Not carin’ fer wind nor weather,
An’ at each of the locks, cook hits the ice box,
And we ’as our grog together.
We ’adn’t pawsed mor’n forty lock
Before the sun wuz settin’,
An’ the Capting ’owls “down anchor,
Fer ’ere we’ll fish be gettin’”.
So we outs with our rods and drops our lines,
While cook in the galley cuts loose,
But blow me tight if ever a bite
Worth a squirt o’ terbacker juice.
Then we goes below an’ does the eats,
At which game that Sid is a prize,
He stows more in his hold than any soul
I ever seen twice his size.
He eats an’ eats an’, tear me sheets,
If he ever turns a hair,
An’ washes all down with a quart o’ tea
Till I thot he’d bust in ’is chair.
Then the Scientific he cleans up,
An’ the yarns begin to spin,
An’ we puffs our pipe an’ sips our grog
Till it’s time fer to turn in.
An’ so we goes along all fair,
Fer three whole nights an’ days,
Fishin’, drinkin’ an’ eatin’,
And a-soakin’ of our clays.
Then the ’orrible thing ’appens
That ends our ’opes to roam,
Blow me blarsted mizzen lights,
We all ’ad to come ’ome.
The Mate.