“But if your honour gives your mind
To study all our ways,
With dance and song we’ll jog along
As in those happy days.
“I like your honour’s looks, and feel
You’re worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad
To welcome you aboard!”
Sir Berkely looked amazed, as though
He didn’t understand.
“Don’t shake your head,” good William said,
“It is an honest hand.
“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—
Come, gov’nor, I insist!”
The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—
The hand became a fist!
“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;
But Berkely dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
The seamen murmured “Shame!”
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,
Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
Be used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess,
Nor asked them to his own,
But chaffed in gay and social way
The officers alone.
His First Lieutenant, Peter, was
As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
When there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to be
His foster-sister May,
Who went to sea for love of he
In masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact,
Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears or end her fears
By marrying her? No!