Poor Andrew once made a vow that he would not get drunk, and said that not only the taste but the smell of the liquor was so disagreeable that he could not bear to stay where it was. He also gave Watson, the boatswain, leave to thrash him with his cane if ever he found him drunk. Poor fellow, he kept his promise for about three months, and then turned to as bad as ever, and Watson did not forget to give him a lacing with his cane, which occasioned the following song written by John Macredie:—
Of all the delights that a mortal can taste,
A bottle of liquor is surely the best;
Possessed of that treasure my hours sweetly glide,
Oh! there’s nothing like grog, says sweet Andrew Macbride.
When I sit in my school I think my time lost
Where with dry sines and tangents my temper is crossed;
But how sweetly I smile with the glass by my side:
Grog helps mathematics, says Andrew Macbride.
The boatswain, God damn him, would fain me control