Patch, also sings.
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She 's cooked fer sailors worn down to the bone, Till they rolls like the Captain's gig. At soup and stew we are never through, But our fav'rite dish is pig. And she cuts off slabs and passes 'em 'round, And the Duke, he takes her hand. Me Darlin', me love, by the gods above, Yer a cook fer a pirate band. |
And now Darlin' again.
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Me grog is the best. It is made o' rum, And I stirs in sugar, too. And a hogshead vast will hardly last A merry evenin' through. And I fills the cups till mornin' comes, And the Duke, he talks like a loon. Me Darlin', me life, will yer be me wife, And elope by the light o' the moon. |
(Let all the tinware crash!)
"Did n't yer ever play Black-ace at the Rusty Anchor?" Captain: (as he throws down his cards). There! I done yer. Yer a child at cards, Patch. How ain 't it that yer never learnt? Did n't yer ever play black-ace at the Rusty Anchor down Greenwich way? Crack me hook, I 've played with ol' Flint hisself, settin' in the leetle back room. With somethin' wet and warmin' now and then, jest ter keep the stomich cozy. Never stopped till Phœbus's fiery eye looked in the winder.
Patch: Poor ol' Flint! I never sees his clock up there but I drops a tear.
Captain: Yer cries as easy as a crocodile. And yer as innercent at cards as—as a baby bitin' at his coral, a cooin' leetle pirate.