My spirit down to keep;
I hopes I’ll soon git back again,
To take another peep.
2 o’clock.—Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner “a mess” on broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look—no bread but hard biskit and plenty of ship’s rolls, besides biled pork and P-soop—both these articles seemed rayther queer—felt my stommick growing quear too—got on deck, and asked where we were—was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I never was in such dreadful straits in my life—ship leaning very much on one side, which made me feel like a man
GOING OFF IN A RAPID DECLINE.
3 o’clock.—Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy. Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it’s all dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn’t refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable tiers.
5 o’clock.—I’m sure we shan’t srwive this night, therefore I av determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:—Let awl yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany and keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their bissnesses on dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any main, like their unfortinet
Servant, THE BOY JONES.