I shake my bottle with a doubt;
My poor half-pint[12] is quite drain’d out;
Not one kind drop is left!
VI.
The youth with indignation burns;
Into his hated hammock turns;
Alas! not long to sleep:
The quarter-master, with hoarse tongue,
Awakes him; says, “The bell has rung:”
He’s rous’d, his watch to keep.