Of all the lives I ever say,
A Pirate's be for I.
Hap what hap may he's allus gay
An' drinks an' bungs his eye.
For his work he's never loth:
An' a-pleasurin' he'll go;
Tho' certain sure to be popt off,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!
In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
Well stored wi' togs an' gold,
An' off I goes to sea for more,
A-piratin' so bold.
An' wounded in the arm I got,
An' then a pretty blow;
Comed home I find Poll's flowed away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!
An' when my precious leg was lopt,
Just for a bit of fun,
I picks it up, on t'other hopt,
An' rammed it in a gun.
"What's that for?" cries out Salem Dick;
"What for, my jumpin' beau?
"Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!"
Yo, ho, with the rum below!
I 'llows this crazy hull o' mine
At sea has had its share:
Marooned three times an' wounded nine
An' blowed up in the air.
But ere to Execution Bay
The wind these bones do blow,
I'll drink an' fight what's left away,
Yo, ho, with the rum below!
—An Old English Ballad.
THE BOOK OF BURIED TREASURE
CHAPTER I
THE WORLD-WIDE HUNT FOR VANISHED RICHES
The language has no more boldly romantic words than pirate and galleon and the dullest imagination is apt to be kindled by any plausible dream of finding their lost treasures hidden on lonely beach or tropic key, or sunk fathoms deep in salt water. In the preface of that rare and exceedingly diverting volume, "The Pirates' Own Book," the unnamed author sums up the matter with so much gusto and with so gorgeously appetizing a flavor that he is worth quoting to this extent: