There's a smart Cockney Tar with his glass to his eye,
Sing hey, sing ho, and a Brummagem salt!
And what does the trim longshore yachtsman descry?
Ho! he's spying like Robinson Crusoe!
The Pilot in pose imperturbable stands,
With slouching Sou'wester and pocketed hands,
But his eye's on the Yacht and he quite understands,
The fix of the Skipper—poor chap!—who commands,
Or at least is imagined to do so.
"Hillo!" cries the Cockney; "they're signalling now,