On Board the "Rocket"

by Robert C. Adams

I've followed the sea over thirty-two years,
In the Navy, hard Packets and wild Privateers;
But of all the old vessels that ever I cursed,
Just shiver my timbers if this ain't the worst.
The bloody old wall-sided cranky concern—
I think every squall she is sure to o'erturn,
And the way that she rolls and goes pitching about
Would have made all the patience of Job fizzle out.
It's enough to provoke a good parson to swear,
To see the bad way her old rotten sails tear,
And I never go higher aloft than the top
Without fear that the foot-ropes will give me a drop.
I wonder those owners are suffered to live
Who send out a ship that will leak like a sieve,
Which every time that she gives a bad jump
Makes fifty more strokes to be worked at the pump.
We ought to arrest the old man as a cheat
For bringing us here where there's nothing to eat;
It's a terrible shame for an old Yankee tub
To feed her good men with such horrible grub.
To be sure, he now and then gives us some flour;
But the mean dirty rat, it's because it's gone sour,
And as for his pies and the dried apple sauce,
I'd a precious deal rather have good old salt horse.
We slave every week day on board of the craft,
But on Sunday the hypocrite makes us come aft—
He preaches an hour about Christian hopes,
Then sends us on deck to give swigs at the ropes.
There's a heap of good sense in the famous old rule
Always choose a big rascal before a great fool.
And one thing I promise, whatever may happen,
I'll not sail again with a psalm-singing Cap'n.
The ship must have been in amazing great straits
When she took such poor things as these men are for mates.
It worries one's temper beyond all its bounds
To be bossed round the decks by such humbugging hounds.
Now! shipmates, you know I'm not given to growl,
And I hate a bad temper with all of my soul;
But worked and most starved till one scarcely can crawl,
A man that won't growl is just no man at all.

SAILORS' OPINIONS.

Part II.

"LAST SHIP."

Last time I went to sea
I sailed on board the Rocket;
Those were good days for me
And money in my pocket.
She was a perfect boat,
An easy one to handle—
For speed no ship afloat
Could hold to her a candle.
She tacked just like a yacht
And lay to like a duck;
If others thrived or not
She always was in luck.
The owners fitted out
In such a liberal way,
All things were trim and stout
From keel to royal stay.

The captain was a trump—
A perfect "saint in boots";
He never gave a thump
To greenhorns nor galoots.
The mates were tip-top men,
Gave us our watch below;
No oaths and curses then
Though it blew high or low.
We mustered aft to prayer
And navigation classes—
We had the best of fare
And lots of duff and 'lasses
I've sailed for many a year
And soon will have to dock it;
But while I've breath I'll cheer
And brag about the Rocket.

Even in the cabin there was a tendency to dissatisfaction, and the passenger expressed his weariness of our simple and restricted fare by composing a parody on the "Ode to the Rocket," in which she was abused as heartily as any old sailor could have done it. His pencil was also called into requisition, and the scantiness of fare on the cabin table was graphically portrayed.

Sea life is a severe test of disposition, and it must be a remarkable amiability which can endure its vicissitudes without complaint. Lord Byron's prescription for truly knowing a man: "Go to sea with him," is certainly correct, as regards knowledge of a man's temper.

The first verse of the Parody will serve as an example of its sentiment:

"IN THE DOLDRUMS—HOMEWARD BOUND."