We need scarcely add that this toast was drunk with enthusiastic applause, and that it was followed up by the amateur minstrels with admirable effect.
Many songs were sung, and many toasts were proposed that night, and warm was the expression of feeling towards the men who were ever so ready to imperil their lives in the hope of saving those of their fellow-creatures, and who had already, oftentimes, given such ample proof that they were thoroughly able to do, as well as to dare, almost anything. Several singers with good, and one or two with splendid, voices, gave a variety of songs which greatly enhanced the brilliancy of the evening, and were highly appreciated in the gallery; and a few bad singers with miserable voices (who volunteered their songs) did really good service by impressing upon the audience very forcibly the immense differences between good and bad music, and thus kindly acted as shadows to the vocal lights of the evening—as useful touches of discord in the general harmony which by contrast rendered the latter all the sweeter.
But of all the solos sung that night none afforded such delight as a national melody sung by our friend Jerry MacGowl, in a voice that rang out like the voices of three first-class bo’s’ns rolled into one. That worthy son of the Emerald Isle, and Dick Moy, and Jack Shales, happened to be enjoying their month on shore when the supper to the lifeboat-men was planned, and they were all there in virtue of their having been instrumental in saving life on more than one occasion during their residence in Ramsgate. Jerry’s song was, as we have said, highly appreciated, but the applause with which it was greeted was as nothing compared with the shouts and cheers that shook the roof of Saint James’s Hall, when, on being asked to repeat it, Jerry modestly said that he “would prefer to give them a duet—perhaps it was a trayo—av his mates Jack Shales and Dick Moy would only strike in wid bass and tenor.”
The men of the floating light then sang “The Minute-Gun at Sea” magnificently, each taking the part that suited him best or struck his fancy at the moment, and Jerry varying from tenor to bass and bass to treble according to taste.
“Now, Mister Chairman,” said the bold Jerry MacGowl, when the cheers had subsided, “it’s my turn to call for a song, so I ax Mr Queeker to favour the company wid—” Thunders of applause drowned the remainder of the sentence.
Poor Queeker was thrown into great confusion, and sought to explain that he could not sing, even in private—much less in public.
“Oh yes, you can, sir. Try it, sir, no fear of ’ee. Sure it’s yourself as can do it, an’ no mistake,” were the remarks with which his explanation was interrupted.
“I assure you honestly,” cried Queeker, “that I cannot sing, but” (here breathless silence ensued) “if the chairman will kindly permit me, I will give you a toast.”
Loud cheers from all sides, and a good-humoured nod from the chairman greeted this announcement.
“Mr Chairman and Friends,” said Queeker, “the ladies have—” A perfect storm of laughter and cheers interrupted him for at least two minutes.