It may do you good. We are mates in mood, and our hearts have always kept tune.
The Isle that's right, and extremely tight— which I trust that mayn't mean "groggy"—
Is our care, old chum! Well, the outlook's rum, and the prospect rather foggy!
Oh! keep on your hair! There's no cause for Scare, though some party men, and papers,
Do their best to raise a new Naval Craze. These be old, old party capers;
For your angry Outs always swell with doubts, whilst the Cocksure Ins, complacent,
Swear that cause for care may be found— Nowhere, or the parts thereto adjacent.
You are not so green that mere party spleen, and the bogus bosh of boobies,
Can play the fool with your judgment cool; 'tis a richer dower than rubies.
Still a Fleet, old boy, is no party toy, no theme for factious scoffing,