By the saucy little Primrose, on the coast of Africa.
One evening, while we the deep with gentle breezes plough,
A sail is seen from our mast-head, hard on the weather bow;
The gloom of night now coming on, of her we soon lose sight,
But down she bears, about five bells, as if prepared for fight.
Yet here she overreach’d herself, and prov’d she was mistaken,
Thinking by passing in the dark, that she could save her bacon;
For British tars don’t lose a prize, by fault in looking out,
So we brought her to, with much ado, at eleven o’clock about.
All hands were call’d to quarters, our guns were clear’d away,