In the teeth of the booming gale.
The captain sat in a commodore’s hat
And dined in a royal way
On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
And gummery bread each day.
But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such:
For the food he gave the crew
Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns
Chopped up with sugar and glue.
And we all felt ill as mariners will,