“Well, give us your toast, Bill. We’re all primed and waiting.”
“My toast ain’t a very short one, but here it goes: ‘May the next year be our very last in this ’ere blessed island; may we all go home with bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.’”
“Hear, hear!” And every glass was drained to the bottom. “Now for the song.”
“Oh, only an old ditty o’ Dibdin’s, and I’d rather be on the heavin’ ocean when I sings it. There is no accompaniment to a song so fetching as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. Them’s my sentiments, boys.
“Wives and Sweethearts.
“’Tis said we ve’t’rous diehards, when we leave the shore,
Our friends should mourn,
Lest we return
To bless their sight no more;
But this is all a notion
Bold Jack can’t understand,
Some die upon the ocean,
And some die on the land.
Then since ’tis clear,
Howe’er we steer,
No man’s life’s under his command;
Let tempests howl
And billows roll,
And dangers press;
In spite of these there are some joys
Us jolly tars to bless,
For Saturday night still comes, my boys,
To drink to Poll and Bess.
“Hurrah!” But just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors’ Saturday night. All started to their feet to listen.