And teach the wight
Who fears to fight
To keep his blade in fettle
Chorus: To keep his blade in fettle!”
When the refrain had died away and the Frenchman had dropped back upon his bench, Goddard, in a fine spirit of amity, jumped again to his feet, trying to sing. He had no more notion of tune than an anchor stock, but roared in an ear-splitting way:
“Then fill a rousing cup wi’ me,
For there be naught to pay!
And drink to wee-man as she be
From France to far Cathay!”
He had reached a state of mind in which he cared little enough for king, priest, or the devil, and Salvation was in little better part, striving to preach a sermon in French, of which language he had no notion whatever. In the middle of his salty verse, Goddard was set upon by several of the younger men and lifted bodily upon the table. There he stood for a moment swaying awkwardly from one foot to the other, blinking at the light which swung to the rafters a foot from his nose.
Then he shouted,
“Mounseers, my voice is like the run of the topsail haulyard pollys. I can’t sing—an’—blood an’ ouns!—I won’t sing.”
“Par la mort! try it again, try it, mon ami!”
“Non, mounseers,—but by the sakrey blue, I can keep a-givin’ ye healths so long as ye can stand—or sit—for the matter o’ that.”
“Bigre! It seems true that this sailor-man has a paunch like the great water duct of St. Michel. But give us your toast. What is it, then?”