"When at Rio, write to her all about it."
"Write! By the ship that bore my letter, I would fly to her."
"I should prefer sailing; but every man to his taste. In another day or so, according to your own showing, she will be upon the sea!"
"True—true, and with that wretch, most probably," said Morley, relapsing into wretchedness, and striking his forehead with his hand.
"Come, come," urged Bartelot, patting him on the shoulder, "turn out and take a sniff of the breeze on deck. Another glass of wine first; drink and be jolly, man. What says the old song? for it is an old song of Captain Topham's, and none of mine, be assured!
"'You bid me my jovial companions forsake,
The joys of a rural recess to partake;
With you, my good friend, I'll retreat to the vine,
Its shelter be yours, but its nectar be mine;
For each 'twill a separate pleasure produce,
You cool in its shade, while I glow with its juice;
For own no delight with his rapture can vie,
Who always is drinking, yet always is dry.'"
"Many a night have we sung that together when in the Bonny River, on board the dear old Rattler," said Morley, listening with pleasure to the song which Bartelot trolled forth with a fine mellow voice.
"Ah!—the Rattler," said Bartelot, sighing; "they broke her up for firewood—think of that. I sent my old mother at Liverpool a table made out of her timber."
"Go ahead, Tom—finish your song."
"Ah, there is life in the old dog yet, I see," replied Bartelot as he resumed: