All. Ay, ay.
Ralph. True, I lack birth——
Boat. You’ve a berth on board this very ship.
Ralph. Well said—I had forgotten that. Messmates, what do you say? do you approve my determination?
All. We do.
Dick. I don’t.
Boat. What is to be done with this here hopeless chap? Let us sing him the song that Sir Joseph has kindly composed for us. Perhaps it will bring this here miserable creetur to a proper state of mind.
Glee.—Ralph, Boatswain, Boatswain’s Mate, and Chorus.
A British tar is a soaring soul,