With a promise when sober I made like a fool;
With his cursed rattan he so curried my hide,
That I’ll drink his damnation, says Andrew Macbride.
When the sweet powers of grog have my reason betrayed,
And free from sad care on the deck I am laid,
Then the boys black my face, and my actions deride;
The whelps may be damned, says Andrew Macbride.
From the raptures of grog shall a sage be controlled,
And a man like myself submit to be schooled?
If I’m drunk, the lieutenant and captain may chide;