At seven, as in distress we lay,
To fire a signal was our fancy;
But then, d’ye see, there was no way,
No powder was aboard the Nancy.
Next day, tugged off, and into port,
A month’s repairs, and off we glided
At three o’clock, all trim and taut—
Then with the Margate boat collided.
She soon sheered off, all safe and sound,
But as for us—it was no fancy—