Our poor desarted bark,
There she lay—(lay quiet, Poll!)
“There she lay—Noble lady in the window, look with pity on poor Jack, and his little Polly—till next day,
In the Bay of Biscay O.”
“Pray, kind lady, help the poor shipwrecked sailor—cast away on his voyage to the West Ingees, in a dreadful storm. Sixteen hands on us took to the long-boat, my lady, and was thrown on a desart island, three thousand miles from any land; which island was unfortunately manned by Cannibals, who roast and eat every blessed one of us, except the cook’s black boy; and him they potted, my lady, and I’m bless’d but they’d have potted me, too, if I hadn’t sung out to them savages, in this ‘ere sort of way, my lady—
“Come all you jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While British valour I unfold—
Huzza! for the Arethusa!
She was a frigate stout and brave