And so we slosh away.
Grub to last a week, a quadrant and an alma-
nick;
(Wag ’er there, you rascal, wag ’er lively
there, I say!)
Rotten are her sails and her hold a-roar with
shiftin’ brick,
—Ain’t we up ag’inst it if a norther comes
our way?
Pump, I say!