"Lustily, lustily, let us sail forth;
The wind trim doth serve us, it blows from the north,
All things we have ready, and nothing we want,
To furnish our ship that rideth hereby;
Victuals and weapons they be nothing scant,
Like worthy mariners ourselves we will try.
Lustily, oh lustily!"
"Oh, 'tis good to hear to 'ee, Hugh!" cried Turnpenny. "And I do wish we had a crowdy-kit aboard, for I mind me Tom Copstone can ply the bow, and a merry tune would set our feet a-jog. To it again, Hugh; open your thropple, man, and we'll bear our burden, every man of us."
And Hugh Curder, after "hawking and spitting," as he said, because his "wynd-pipe" was "summat scrannied for want o' use," struck up again:
"Her flags be new trimmed, set flaunting aloft——"
"Not so," interrupted Ned Whiddon. "We bean't got no flags."
"Pegs! 'tis in the ditty, Ned," cried Turnpenny. "None but a ninny-hammer would look for sober truth in a ditty. Heed him not, Hugh; to it again."
"Her flags be new trimmed, set flaunting aloft,
Our ship for swift swimming, oh she doth excel;
We fear no enemies, we've escaped them oft;
Of all ships that swimmeth she beareth the bell.
Lustily, oh lustily.
"And here is a master excelleth in skill,
And our master's mate he is not to seek;
And here is a boatswain will do his good will,
And here is a ship-boy, we never had leak."
Lustily, oh lustily."
"You be the ship-boy, Hugh, seeing you be the youngest of us," said Whiddon. "And you've a proper breast for a singing-boy."
"Now the last stanzo, Hugh," cried Turnpenny. "'If fortune then fail not,'—but my scrimpy voice murders it. Sing up, man."