“Lay aft, you lubber, do!
What’s come to that young man, Joe?
Belay!—’vast heaving! you!
Do kindly stop that banjo!
“I wish, I do—O lor’!—
You’d shipped aboard a trader:
Are you a sailor or
A negro serenader?”
But still the stricken lad,
Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
His aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty had
Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty;
Says he, “I love that lad,
But duty, damme! duty!
“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,
Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
A good six dozen lashes!”
But Joseph had a mate,
A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe!
I’ll tell you what I’m arter—
To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And say you love her dearly.”
And Joe said (weeping low),
“I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that Lord
Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
An interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll,
“My Captain (wot’s a Tartar)
Guv Joe twelve months’ black-hole,
For lovering your darter.