“Foot it rather too much that time, father,” said young Tom, getting up the first, and laughing. “Come, Jacob, let’s put father on his pins again; he can’t rise without a purchase.” With some difficulty, we succeeded. As soon as he was on his legs again, old Tom put a hand upon each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer—
“What though his timbers they are gone,
And he’s a slave to tipple,
No better sailor e’er was born
Than Tom, the jovial cripple.
“Thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. I suspect we knocked the wind out of him. Hollo, there, are you hard and fast?”
“The bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing,” quoth the Dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him.
“Senses going, do you say, master?” cried old Tom. “Don’t throw them overboard till we have made a finish. One more pannikin apiece, one more song, and then to bed. Tom, where’s the bottle?”
“Drink no more, sir, I beg; you’ll be ill to-morrow,” said I to the Dominie.
“Deprome quadrimum,” hiccuped the Dominie. “Carpe diem—quam minimum—creula postero.—Sing, friend Dux—Quem virum—sumes celebrare—music amicus.—Where’s my pattypan?—We are not Thracians—Natis in usum—laetitae scyphis pugnare—(hiccup)—Thracum est—therefore we—will not fight—but we will drink—recepto dulce mihi furere est amico—Jacob, thou art drunk—sing, friend Dux, or shall I sing?
“Propria quae maribus had a little dog,
Quae genus was his name—
“My memory faileth me—what was the tune?”
“That tune was the one the old cow died of, I’m sure,” replied Tom. “Come, old Nosey, strike up again.”