“Sir,” said I, “now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore!
But, in fact, my sense was napping——” then the sailor answered, rapping
Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the score,—
Answered he, “Come, hold your jaw!
“May my timbers now be shivered—” oh, at this my poor heart quivered,—
“If you don’t beat any parson that I ever met before!
You’ve not hurt me; stow your prosing”—then his huge peacoat unclosing,
Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he bore,—
Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore,
Which at once drew corks and swore.