I could not imagine what the seamen were about; they appeared to be pumping, instead of heaving, at the windlass. I forced my way through the heterogeneous mixture of human beings, animals, and baggage which crowded the decks, and discovered that they were working a patent windlass, by Dobbinson—a very ingenious and superior invention. The seamen, as usual, lightened their labour with the song and chorus, forbidden by the etiquette of a man-of-war. The one they sung was peculiarly musical, although not refined; and the chorus of “Oh! Sally Brown,” was given with great emphasis by the whole crew between every line of the song, sung by an athletic young third mate. I took my seat on the knight-heads—turned my face aft—looked and listened.
“Heave away there, forward.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“‘Sally Brown—oh! my dear Sally.’” (Single voice).
“‘Oh! Sally Brown.’” (Chorus).
“‘Sally Brown, of Buble Al-ly.’” (Single voice).
“‘Oh! Sal-ly Brown,’” (Chorus).
“Avast heaving there; send all aft to clear the boat.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Where are we to stow these casks, Mr Fisher?”
“Stow them! Heaven knows; get them in, at all events.”