look spry!
foul weather forces us to ply down Sydney Bay
me, i’d rather run sly on Norfolk
suppose you use the spy-glass, saucer-eyes!
that Jack Sauce is a surly sly-boots
serve ‘ere ‘cos i sweated sinkers
us tars sup on sipper-sauce, them nobs on sack
lubber, you lie as fast as a dog can lick a dish
Phillip’s flagship, Sirius, is she tight as a piper?
sure as a louse in yer bosom
‘tis Sirius with stores lies on the knuckle, the sloop Supply lies off-shore
longboats! prepare to unload!
watch, the wind’s turned about
reef sails!
stack those stores on the gun deck!
look sharp! reef neath the surf yonder! low
-lying! make sail!
avast! she’s turning my eyes and limbs!
stern’s struck, sir!
strike sails!
use Sir Sydney, sirrah, to chiv the rigging! chop masts
over the side!
sink me, if 'taint bloody serious!
Sirius is foundering a swell o’ surf off Point Ross
she’s labouring
nay, she cranks
Lord ‘elp us!
dive into the drink and swim for’t!
us reefers can’t swim!
strike our shackles, for God’s sake!
dear Lord, save our wretched souls, our sorry selves!
the devil be damned! salt water be our settlers
them salts at cinques and sices, poor devils
look, they be hauling them jacks through surf ashore
Cap’n Hunter, pair o’ us chums be willin’ to kick our paddles
save the livestock, like
and the grog, i’ll lay
s’death, she’s heeling! you two water-rugs, make haste with hawser and lines!
crosses the bloody Herring Pond
and gets rocked by Old Davy’s rough bed
pooped like our prospects
down the sink-hole o’ Slaughter Bay
us tars’ll be marooned for many a long moon on this empty isle
savin’ tall spars o’ pine plenty o’ pitch, tar, turpentine
aye, to gall yer naval
lumbered
and limbered
in limbo
o Lord!
such a sorry loss for us starvelings
such bitter sorrow sears us settlers to the marrow
Michael Small December 31, 2007-January 4, 2008
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