It was a jolly mariner
As ever hove a log;
He wore his trousers wide and free,
And always ate his prog,
And blessed his eyes, in sailor-wise,
And never shirked his grog.
Up spoke this jolly mariner,
Whilst walking up and down:—
"The briny sea has pickled me,
And done me very brown;
But here I goes, in these here clo'es,
A-cruising in the town!"
The first of all the curious things
That chanced his eye to meet,
As this undaunted mariner
Went sailing up the street,
Was, tripping with a little cane,
A dandy all complete!
He stopped,—that jolly mariner,—
And eyed the stranger well;—
"What that may be," he said, says he,
"Is more than I can tell;
But ne'er before, on sea or shore,
Was such a heavy swell!"
He met a lady in her hoops,
And thus she heard him hail:—
"Now blow me tight!—but there's a sight
To manage in a gale!
I never saw so small a craft
With such a spread o' sail!
"Observe the craft before and aft,—
She'd make a pretty prize!"
And then, in that improper way,
He spoke about his eyes,
That mariners are wont to use,
In anger or surprise.
He saw a plumber on a roof,
Who made a mighty din:—
"Shipmate, ahoy!" the rover cried,
"It makes a sailor grin
To see you copper-bottoming
Your upper-decks with tin!"
He met a yellow-bearded man,
And asked about the way;
But not a word could he make out
Of what the chap would say,
Unless he meant to call him names
By screaming, "Nix furstay!"
Up spoke this jolly mariner,
And to the man said he,
"I haven't sailed these thirty years
Upon the stormy sea,
To bear the shame of such a name
As I have heard from thee!
"So take thou that!"—and laid him flat.
But soon the man arose,
And beat the jolly mariner
Across his jolly nose,
Till he was fain, from very pain,
To yield him to the blows.
'Twas then this jolly mariner,
A wretched jolly tar,
Wished he was in a jolly-boat
Upon the sea afar,
Or riding fast, before the blast,
Upon a single spar!
'Twas then this jolly mariner
Returned unto his ship,
And told unto the wondering crew
The story of his trip,
With many oaths and curses, too,
Upon his wicked lip!—
As hoping—so this mariner
In fearful words harangued—
His timbers might be shivered, and
His le'ward scuppers danged,
(A double curse, and vastly worse
Than being shot or hanged!)
If ever he—and here again
A dreadful oath he swore—
If ever he, except at sea,
Spoke any stranger more,
Or like a son of—something—went
A-cruising on the shore!