The song ended with tumultuous cheering fore and aft, and not until then did the captain send down to request that the noise might be discontinued. As soon as it was over, the grog was loudly called for in the midshipmen’s berth, and made its appearance.
“Here’s to the white cliffs of England,” cried one, drinking off his tumbler, and turning it upside down on the table.
“Here’s to the Land of Beauty.”
“Here’s to the Emerald Isle.”
“And here’s to the Land of Cakes,” cried Stewart, drinking off his tumbler, and throwing it over his shoulder.
“Six for one for skylarking,” cried Prose.
“A hundred for one, you damned cockney, for all I care.”
“No—no—no,” cried all the berth; “not one for one.”
“You shall have a song for it, my boys,” cried Stewart, who immediately commenced, with great taste and execution, the beautiful air—
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?