We're freebooters all; hoist the pirate's black flag,
We're after the Greenbacks, altho' they are rags.
The long rakish schooner is filled with her crew,
And ready for deeds of most brave derring do.
Hail! Hail!
We've filled every sail;
We will levy black-mail,
Till the Fair is all thro.'
No quarter! the bucaneers cry on the seas,
A quarter! we cry. Oh, give it; do, please!
Our flag it is paper, all blackened with ink,
We'll stand by each fold, till beneath it we sink.
Hail! Hail!
We've filled every sail!
We will levy black-mail,
And gloat over its chink.
Our weapons of gold, or of steel, or of quill,
From our brain and ink fountains, alike we must fill.
We will hunt on all manors, and poach on all game,
And if we are saucy, let nobody blame.
Hail! Hail!
We've filled every sail!
We will levy black-mail,
For the Fair's glorious name.
We're highwaymen, too; so deliver your purse.
Here comes back a letter, for better or worse.
Unbutton your pocket, and pray don't get mad,
When you're stopped on the road by a charming foot-pad.
Hail! Hail!
Try to hit on the nail,
And levy black-mail,
Where e'er it is had.
But we rovers have still a hard, perilous life.
Take this question of Postage—the desperate strife.
We must read stupid letters for many a mail—
How loud our poor victims will mutter and rail.
Hail! Hail!
We must weather this gale,
Without turning pale,
For we must not say Fail!