“Ah! that’s a pity; so we can’t have that ’ere partickler song. But I’ll give ye another, if ye don’t object.”
“No, no. All right; go ahead, Gurney! Is there a chorus to it?”
“Ay, in course there is. Wot’s a song without a chorus? Wot’s plum-duff without the plums? Wot’s a ship without a ’elm? It’s my opinion, shipmates, that a song without a chorus is no better than it should be. It’s wus nor nothin’. It puts them wot listens in the blues an’ the man wot sings into the stews—an’ sarve him right. I wouldn’t, no, I wouldn’t give the fag-end o’ nothin’ mixed in bucket o’ salt water for a song without a chorus—that’s flat; so here goes.”
Having delivered himself of these opinions in an extremely vigorous manner, and announced the fact that he was about to begin, Gurney cleared his throat and drew a number of violent puffs from his pipe in quick succession, in order to kindle that instrument into a glow which would last through the first verse and the commencement of the chorus. This he knew was sufficient, for the men, when once fairly started on the chorus, would infallibly go on to the end with or without his assistance, and would therefore afford him time for a few restorative whiffs.
“It hain’t got no name, lads.”
“Never mind, Gurney—all right—fire away.”
“Oh, I once know’d a man as hadn’t got a nose,
An’ this is how he come to hadn’t—
One cold winter night he went and got it froze—
By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.
(Chorus.) Well-nigh madden’d,
By the pain he was well-nigh madden’d.
“Next day it swoll up as big as my head,
An’ it turn’d like a piece of putty;
It kivered up his mouth, oh, yes, so it did,
So he could not smoke his cutty.
(Chorus.) Smoke his cutty,
So he could not smoke his cutty.
“Next day it grew black, and the next day blue,
An’ tough as a junk of leather;
(Oh! he yelled, so he did, fit to pierce ye through)—
An’ then it fell off altogether!
(Chorus.) Fell off altogether,
An’ then it fell off altogether!
“But the morial is wot you’ve now got to hear,
An’ it’s good—as sure as a gun;
An’ you’ll never forget it, my messmates dear,
For this song it hain’t got none!
(Chorus.) Hain’t got none,
For this song it hain’t got none!”
The applause that followed this song was most enthusiastic, and evidently gratifying to Gurney, who assumed a modest deprecatory air as he proceeded to light his pipe, which had been allowed to go out at the third verse, the performer having become so engrossed in his subject as to have forgotten the interlude of puffs at that point.
“Well sung, Gurney. Who made it?” inquired Phil Briant, an Irishman, who, besides being a jack-of-all-trades and an able-bodied seaman, was at that time acting-assistant to the cook and steward, the latter—a half Spaniard and half negro, of Californian extraction—being unwell.
“I’m bound not to tell,” replied Gurney, with a conscious air.