He took a pistol from his breast
And waved that lit—tle toy—
“Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash Jack's part—
“I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said
The wild Kerlonial Boy.
Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head—his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair to toenails, as a child.
They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it behind his head on the end of the stool:
The ship was built in Glasgow;
'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”—
Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone
between—
And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!
The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all do within hearing, when Abe sings.
“Now then, boys:
And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!
“Now, all together!