Or again, and as bad:
Oh, they call me Hanging Johnny—
Hurray! Pull away!
An' I'll soon hang you, my sonny—
Hang—boys—hang!
These are but opening verses. There were many more in each case, and they were bad enough in all respects. And yet Engelhardt chimed in at his own expense—even at Naomi's—because it might be that his life and hers depended upon it. He was beginning to have his hopes, partly from the delay, partly from looks and winks which he had seen exchanged; and his hopes led to ideas, because his brain had never been clearer and busier than it was now become. He was devoutly thankful not to have been twice forced to sing. The second time, however, was still to come. It was announced by a jerk of the rope that went near to dislocating his neck.
"This image is doing nothink for 'is living, an' yet we're letting 'im live!" cried Bill, in a tone of injured and abused magnanimity. "Sing, you swine, or swing! One o' the two."
"What sort will you have this time?" asked Engelhardt, meekly. His meekness was largely put on, however. The black bottle had been going round pretty freely; in fact, it was quite empty. Another had been broached, and the men were both visibly and audibly in their cups.
"Another comic!" cried Simons and the Bo's'n in one breath.
"No, something serious this trip," Bill said, contradictiously. "You know warri mean, you lubber—somethin' soothin' for a night-cap—somethin' Christy-mental. Go ahead an' be damned to ye!"