“O, damn your Greek and Latin!” cried old Tom; “keep that for to-morrow. Sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall I sing you one? Here goes—
“For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger’s drown’d,
We despise it to a man;
We sing a little—”
“Sing a little,” bawled the Dominie.
“And laugh a little—”
“Laugh a little,” chorused young Tom.
“And work a little—”
“Work a little,” cried the Dominie.
“And swear a little—”
“Swear not a little,” echoed Tom.
“And fiddle a little—”