Anger burns as a lanthorn’s glim
Hate bores weevils in galley grub
Traps will ne’er slang me for prime
rigs. Any salt-box I’ll undub
Scots by birth and scot by temper
Ain’t afeared of the flogger’s flail
Give me fifty crost raw shoulders
I’ll ne’er flinch, nor plead, not squeal
Two hundred lags rushed Woolwich gates
Charged our keepers to seize a bark
The dragoons shot dead many a mate
Death we hunted, not dread hulks’ dark
More than Cock Inn, missed fighting-cocks
owling squire’s game fowls at darks
and pinching ‘stead of mending clocks
But water sneaks is chancy larks
Scaly fish, me, a sea-crab. Bang
Slipped the lag-ship, flash freebooter
Absconded from the iron gang
Sneaked a brig so knapped a winder
By beak’s order slanged in rivets
Bay side transport to Port Phillip
Baked dry, ‘twas, proper lime-basket
Not one drop o’ the bane or strip-
me-naked. So I nuts Guv’nor
Collins, a reg’lar right-down flat
Keep privies clean, overseer
No filth in the fresh stream or lat-
rines. Blood! I’d settle ‘im! I’d nob
it on the stores. I’d muster staunch
jacks. Edicated chum is Rob
Stewart. Made mates at a good hank
Deserted camp in Knopwood’s tub
Three whole weeks of old salts’ pleasure
Yarning, smoking, dancing and grub
growling with birds of a feather
Green was Knopwood, took me fishing
Pirate, says Robbie, or forger
Me? Pure piss-fire pishing
Ne’er no ordinar file-lifter
Hard as the hobs of hell and bold
We seized the brig, the Harrington
Pirates in search of guinea gold
We hankered after liberty
heavers stealing heaven’s sway
Our hard-a-weather lads looked lively
auld hornie in chase to Cathay
Cut cables and fly, rum laggers
Otaheite afore the mast
Fakers and fidlams turn whalers
or choke at the yard-arm abaft
Michael Small February 10-13, 2004
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