“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again and again, had finally died away.
“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly dry.”
Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine manly tenor, the following stanzas:
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!
With his junk and Jamaica by him,
He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.
He seeks but the foe to defy him;
He fights for his honor and country’s laws,
He fights for the mother that bore him,—
And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause