The skipper lay with his nob in gore
Where the scullion’s axe his cheek had shore,
And the scullion he was stabbed times four;
And there they lay, and the soggy skies
Dripped ceaselessly in upstaring eyes,
By murk sunset and by foul sunrise—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men of ’em stiff and stark,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Ten of the crew bore the murder mark,