“No, no, I really can’t, ’pon honour,” said the ensign, looking very much more flushed than before.
“Yes, yes, he is,” said Bob, addressing those around. “He is—in honour of the occasion; and gentlemen, let’s sing out the chorus so loudly that those niggers in the campong can hear our sentiments, and shiver in their shoes, where they’ve got any.”
“Hear! hear!” said a young lieutenant.
“But really, you know, I hav’n’t a voice,” exclaimed the ensign in expostulation.
“Gammon!” cried Bob. “He can sing like a bird, gentlemen. Silence, please, for our national song, ‘The Englishman’!”
“I can’t sing it—indeed I can’t,” cried the ensign.
“Oh, yes, you can; go on,” said the young lieutenant who had previously spoken.
“To be sure he will,” cried Bob Roberts. “Heave ahead, Tom, and I’ll help whenever I can. It’s your duty to sing it, for the niggers to hear our sentiments with regard to slavery!”
“Hear, hear!” cried several of the officers, laughing; and the men gave a cheer.
“Slavery and the British flag!” cried Bob Roberts, who was getting excited. “No man, or woman either, who has once sought protection beneath the folds of the glorious red white and blue, can ever return to slavery!”