Chapter VII: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (7)

Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’
service
Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling
winds have blown,
And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is
Is a thing――I says it proudly――as I’ve never, never known.
No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content,
And never gone in for a railer,
But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent,
Like a honest and brave British sailor!

And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion.
Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men;
But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean.
And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then.
For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too,
More sober and cautious to make me;
For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do,
If disaster and death overtake me.

’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten;
I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see;
And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten,
And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir――not me!
But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough,
And no one to bother about him;
And if _he_ comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough
That the world could get well on without him.

But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses,
Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam,
Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts
surpasses,
Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home,
For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me,
Her heart, with the billows, time beating,
Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee――
A prayer for its father repeating.

Yes, it is for Polly’s sake, and the bairns, I’ve been attending,
To all that they’ve been saying of Shipowners and their craft,
And been brooding o’er those wrongs, sir, which the Board o’ Trade
means mending,
And at which, when I was reckless, why, I only took and laughed.
So you, please, mustn’t think that Tom Tough is a shirk,
Nor in anyways flustered or frighted,
If he should ask you, whilst he sticks to his work,
To try if those wrongs can’t be righted.

For you see I ain’t no spouter, and I’ve not the gift o’ patter,
But all the same I knows full well that many things is wrong;
And drownding is for me and mine so serious a matter,
That if the case is put for us, it can’t be put too strong.
So whilst I continues my duty to do,
Until my last trip is completed,
I hope that the Board will do _its_ dooty, too,
And see that Tom’s properly treated.

There’s such talk about insoorance and the likes, I’ve often
wonder’d
If there’s any human feeling in this great and Christian land,
For all the while they’re chatt’ring, men is drownding by the
hunderd,
Through the acts o’ greedy owners, if I rightly understand.
Aye, it’s this that is makin’ a coward of the best,
And turning good hands into railers:
It’s this that is crushing the pluck and the zest
From the hearts o’ your brave British sailors.

So it ain’t for no great favour that Tom Tough just now is
praying,
He wants to have fair chances in the struggle, that is all;
And if Englishmen loves justice, why there’ll be no more delaying
In list’ning and attending to his very urgent call.
Or, leastways, if they at my language still sneer,
And pass my petition unheeding,
I knows very well they won’t turn a deaf ear
To my wife and my little ones’ pleading!

_Truth._ March 27, 1884.

――――

A SAILOR’S PLEA FOR THE “YO, HEAVE HO!”

Yes, my name, d’ye know’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’
service,
Where the waves roll mountains high, and the stormy winds do
blow;
But my heart’s as true as steel, and right taut my every nerve is,
As when, in eighteen forty, I first sung out, “Yo, heave ho!”
No, I’ve never yet been ailing,
Since the time I went a-sailing;
An’ though I’ve been around this world some twenty times or so;
Aye, although I ain’t a stranger,
To any kind o’ danger,
Yet I’m ready still to meet ’em with a “Yo, heave ho!”

But although I’m able-bodied, and still fit to furl a “topsel,”
Or to reef a “maintop-gallant” in a stiff nor’-eastern gale:
Though I’m sober and quick-handed, yet just like a hulk I’m
stranded,
And I cannot get a skipper for to answer to my hail.
So as no one me engages,
Why, of course, my bit o’ wages
I’d saved up for a rainy day is bound to quickly go;
And my hopes, I own, is sinking,
For I somehow can’t help thinking
That I shan’t get the chance again to sing out “Yo, heave ho!”

Yes, the times is changed completely since I first sailed on the
ocean,
For then a British ship, you see, was worked by British tars,
And every British skipper would have scoffed the very notion
Of having lots of furriners to man the capstan bars.
But now, I’ll take my davy,
’Cepting sometimes in the Navy,
You will not find a British ship in which they do not stow
Heaps o’ Danes, and Swedes, and Rooshians,
Greeks, Malays, and Fins, and Prooshians,
Who couldn’t, for to save their lives sing out a “Yo, heave ho!”

Why, the crews I used to ship with were all chaps with bone and
muscle,
And with lots o’ pluck and courage, and with hearts to England
true;
But what some calls “competition” has so changed the whole
position,
That now to serve for sailors any furrin’ scum will do.
And if a crew you muster,
P’rhaps of English there’s a cluster,
But there’s Chinamen and Lascars, and there’s Coolies in a row,
All a-chattering in their lingo,
’Till it’s precious hard, by jingo,
To hear aboard a British ship the good old “Yo, heave ho!”

They say I shouldn’t grumble, seeing that which I complain of
Is all owing, as they tell us, to, “a known commercial cause”;
But it’s not much consolation to a chap what fears starvation
To tell him that his suff’ring’s due to “economic laws,”
With such things I cannot wrestle,
But I know a British vessel
Is very, very different to what ’twas years ago;
Since its crew now as a rule is,
Three parts furriners and Coolies
With scarcely British tars enough to give a “Yo, heave ho!”

Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the
present,
To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me;
But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant,
And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be.
Say, for instance, there was fighting,
And the time came for uniting
The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe,
Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians,
And the Chinamen and Rooshians,
Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”?

Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country,
Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas?
No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry,
Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese;
Whilst the tars on whose assistance
May depend the land’s existence
In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know,
Will be found prepared no longer
England’s Navy to make stronger,
Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!”

Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars
And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire
made?
Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean,
And opened every corner of the world up to her trade?
For the sake, then, of the story
Of old England’s naval glory,
You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show,
And let British brain and sinew
Still on British ships continue,
Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!”

_Truth_, April 15, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE SAILOR’S JOURNAL.

’Twas post meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted,
At six she linger’d on the shore,
With uplift hands and broken hearted.
At seven, while taughtening the forestay,
I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy;
At eight we all got under weigh,
And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

* * * * *

At last,――’twas in the month of May,――
The crew, it being lovely weather,
At three A.M. discover’d day
And England’s chalky cliffs together.
At seven up Channel how we bore,
While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy,
At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,
And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

――――

A SAILOR’S JOURNAL.
(_Adapted from Dibdin to the sad Circumstances of the Day._)

’Twas Prime Meridian, twelve at noon,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At eight she watched the rising moon,
With wringing hands, half broken-hearted.
At nine, while tautening the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, unless ’twas fancy:
At ten we all got under weigh,
And bade a long adieu to Nancy!

Night came. The theme of every tongue
Was the Meridian Conference. Weary
Of that at last, we piped and sung,
And chawed our quids in confab cheery;
But something weighed upon my mind,
The wildest dreams possessed my fancy,
And fate seemed whispering on the wind,
I ne’er again should meet my Nancy!

And now arrived the happy time
Which every true Tar’s spirit rouses,
When safe at home (Meridian Prime)
We hoped to meet sweethearts and spouses.
But round and round the world went we,
Seeking that Prime Meridian! Fancy!
The _darned thing wasn’t fixed_, ye see,
And I could not find home or Nancy!

It was, of course, the beastliest bore.
Those stupid Frenchmen had a notion
That fixing it on England’s shore,――
England, whose vessels scour the ocean,
And who is owned to rule the waves,――
Insulted France! A foolish fancy!
The vanity to which they’re slaves
Fooled them――and kept me from my Nancy.

We sailed about, all round we steered,
’Midst sunshine’s gleam and tempest’s rattle.
No Prime Meridian appeared!
The Conference was still at battle.
The Frenchman still maintained the strife
To please his egotistic fancy,
Kept many a Tar from his true wife,
And me from my beloved Nancy!

Alas! Confound the Frogs, I says!
Though fair the wind and fine the weather,
I cannot yet forecaste the day
When Nance and I shall come together.
That Prime Meridian serves to floor
My fondest hopes, my warmest fancy.
It’s still unfixed, and never more
I fear shall I see it or Nancy.

_Punch._ October 25, 1884.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST SHILLING.

As pensive one night in my garret I sate,
My last shilling produced on the table,
That adventurer, cried I, might a history relate,
If to think and to speak it were able.
Whether fancy or magic ’twas played me the freak,
The face seemed with life to be filling;
And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,
“Pay attention to me, thy last shilling!”

* * * * *

CHARLES DIBDIN.

――――

THE OLD OAK TABLE.

I had knocked out the dust from my pipe t’other night,
Old Time t’wards midnight was creeping;
The last smoke from its ashes had taken its flight,――
I felt neither waking nor sleeping;
When a voice, loud and hollow, and, seemingly, near,
You’ll say ’twas a dream or a fable,
Directed towards me, said, audibly clear,
“List, list, list to me, thy oak table.”

“I was once of the forest, the monarch so bold,
“Nor tempest nor storm made me tremble;
“And oft, very oft, the famed Druids of old
“Would under my branches assemble:
“Their mysterious rights they’d perform before me,――
“Those rites to unfold I am able,
“But be that now forgot, I was then an oak tree,
“And now I am but an oak table.

“When the axe brought me down, and soon lopped was each bough,
“And to form a ship I was converted,
“Manned by true hearts of oak, the wide ocean to plough,
“And by victory never deserted.
“But, worn out by Time, and reduced to a wreck,
“Bereft of my anchor and cable,
“A carpenter bought me, and, with part of my deck,
“Made what you see me now――an oak table.

“Now thrust in a corner, put out of the way,――
“But I fear I your patience am tiring.
“I expect nothing less than, some forthcoming day,
“To be broke up and used for your firing.”
“No never,” cried I, as I started awake,
“I’ll keep thee as long as I’m able
“And each friend that my humble cheer will partake,
“Shall be welcome around my oak table.”

――――:o:――――

ALL’S WELL.

Deserted by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night’s cheerless noon,
On tower, or fort, or tented ground
The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray,
Where caution marks the guarded way,
“Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell.”
“A friend”――“The word.” “Good night;” “All’s well.”

Or sailing on the midnight deep,
When weary messmates soundly sleep,
The careful watch patrols the deck,
To guard the ship from foes or wreck;
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
Some friendly voice salutes his ear――
“What cheer? Brother, quickly tell;
Above――below.” “Goodnight,” “All’s well.”

THOMAS DIBDIN

――――

THE EMPTY PURSE.

Deserted by the waning purse,
When frowns proclaim the worldling’s curse,
On garret’s high poetic ground,
The poor man walks his lonely round.
And should some bailiff chance to stray,
Where breaches mark the stairs’ decay,
Who’s there? Ah me! these red capes tell,
Pay this I can’t; to jail――All’s well!

Or gliding through this busy life,
With doctors, nurses, babies, wife;
The careful wight patrols the shop,
And guards the house from toe to top.
And while his thoughts oft debt-ward veer,
Some well-known voice salutes his ear,
What cheer, old friend, old playmate tell?
Cash low, child sick, wife cross――All’s well!

From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

――――

ANOTHER PARODY.

Deserted by declining day,
When weary wights benighted stray;
From bush, or cavern, we appear,
And scare the traveller’s frighted ear
With――“Stand or die, good night. All’s well.”

Or riding home from fair or feast,
Some farmer plodding o’er his beast;
His wit o’erstopped by humming ale,
While thus the joskins we assail;
“Down every stiver, quickly tell,
Your watch, your purse, good night. All’s well!”

ANONYMOUS.

――――

ALL’S WELL.

Hot from the guard-room’s reeking stew,
His spongy great-coat sodden through,
His head with senseless shako crowned,
The sentry walks rheumatic round.
And should civilian querist stray,
And question in his saucy way,
“What cheer, oh! Sentry, quickly tell.”
“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

From guard-bed comrades’ steaming heap,
Turned out all standing, half-asleep,
Great-coat on back and stock on neck,
His perspiration gets a check;
And while, half-starved, he dreams of beer,
Could civil question catch his ear,
“What cheer, ho! Sentry, quickly tell.”
“In fact, all wrong: in word, All’s well!”

_Punch._ March 13, 1858.

――――:o:――――

MAY WE NE’ER WANT A FRIEND, NOR A BOTTLE TO GIVE HIM.

Since the first dawn of reason that beam’d on my mind
And taught me how favoured by fortune my lot,
To share that good fortune, I still was inclined,
And impart to who wanted, what I wanted not.
’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,
When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him,
And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,
“May we ne’er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.”

The heart by deceit or ingratitude rent,
Or by poverty bow’d, tho’ of evils the least,
The smiles of a friend may invite to content,
And we all know content is an excellent feast;
’Tis a maxim entitled to ev’ry one’s praise,
When a man feels distress, like a man to relieve him.
And my motto, tho’ simple, means more than it says,
“May we ne’er want a friend, nor a bottle to give him.

THOMAS DIBDIN.

――――

A NEW VERSION.
(_Addressed to the shades of Dibdin._)

Since the first dawn of reason on――Dibdin――your mind.
Very little experience, it seems, that you got:
If you――after your fortune was shared――did not find
That those you had shared it with, wanted you not
It’s a maxim of mine, if a friend you’d sift out
From the crowd, do not test with too searching a sieve him,
And this motto you then may adopt past a doubt――
“I shall not want a friend, while I’ve lots I can give him!”

But a grateful return of a farthing per cent
When by poverty bowed, don’t expect in the least:
With the fact, that you’ve proved you’re an ass be content,
And we all know content is as good as a feast;
Yet it makes one a little inclined to dispraise
To know from experience, as sure as you live, you
Of this motto the truth will learn, some of these days,
“May you ne’er want a friend――for no jot’ll he give you!”

TOM HOOD, the Younger.

――――:o:――――

THE ARETHUSA.

(Words by Prince Hoare, F.S.A., Dramatic Author, born 1755, died December 22, 1834. Music by William Shield.)

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While English glory I unfold――
Huzza for the Arethusa!
She is a frigate tight and brave
As ever stemm’d the dashing wave;
Her men are staunch
To their fav’rite launch;
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire
On board of the Arethusa.

’Twas with the spring fleet she went out
The English Channel to cruise about,
When four French sail, in shore so about,
Bore down on the Arethusa.
The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie――
The Arethusa seem’d to fly:
Not a sheet or a tack,
Or a brace did she slack;
Though the Frenchman laugh’d, and thought it stuff;
But they knew not the handful of men how tough
On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance,
The stoutest they could find in France;
We with two hundred did advance
On board of the Arethusa.
Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, “Ho!”
The Frenchman then cried out, “Hollo!”
“Bear down, d’ye see,
To our admiral’s lee.”
“No, no!” says the Frenchman, “that can’t be”
“Then I must lug you along with me,”
Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman’s land;
We forced them back upon the strand;
For we fought till not a stick would stand
Of the gallant Arethusa.
And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,
Never to fight the Britons more,
Let each fill a glass
To his fav’rite lass,
A health to the captains and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa.

――――

THE ARIEL’S CREW, SIR.

Come every jolly rower bold,
Whose heart is cast in honour’s mould,
While Nuneham’s glories I unfold,
Huzza for the Ariel’s crew, Sir.
She is a vessel tight and brave
As ever skimm’d the ruffled wave;
Her lads are staunch to their fav’rite launch,
And when the race shall try our fire,
Sooner than yield we’ll all expire,
The dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

’Twas in the Regatta she went out
In Nuneham’s reach to cruise about,
Three rival boats, in show so stout,
Bore down on the “Ariel” crew, Sir;
The “Isis” bold straight ahead did ply,
The sprightly “Ariel” seemed to fly;
Not an arm, nor a back, nor a nerve did she slack;
Though the foemen laugh’d, and thought it was stuff,
Knowing not the handful of lads how tough
Were the dauntless “Ariel” crew, Sir.

Eight strong-arm’d men on their oars did bend,
The stoutest Oxford Town could send;
We eight bold youngsters did contend,
The plucky “Ariel” crew, Sir.
Our cockswain hail’d the “Isis,” “Ho,”
The Isis-men roared out “Hallo!”
“You’ll ne’er win the cup, so you’d better give it up;”
“No, no,” cries the “Ariel,” “that can’t be,
For I mean to lug it along with me,
For the use of the ‘Ariel’ crew, Sir.”

The race was off the Nuneham shore,
(Such a race as ne’er was seen before,)
We pressed them hard, and beat them sore,
The youthful “Ariel” crew, Sir.
And now we’ve beat the rival crew,
And shown what skill and pluck can do,
Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass:
Here’s a health to Maclean and conservatives all,
And may success and honour befall
The lads of the “Ariel” crew, Sir,!

G. V. Cox.
August, 1839.

[“Oxford, in the long vacation 1839, was enlivened by a Nuneham Regatta, a conservative festivity, at which Mr. Maclean (M.P. for Oxford City, and M.A. of Balliol College) was the presiding genius, as well as the chief payer of the piper. I am tempted to introduce here a parody on the famous song of ‘The Gallant Arethusa,’ in honour of the nine young gentlemen, natives of Oxford, who, as the crew of the ‘Ariel’ carried off the chief honours of this regatta.” p. 309, _Recollections of Oxford_. 1789-1860, by G. V. Cox.]

――――

THE MAN WHO MENDED THE BOILER.

“Mr. Benbow, the engineer of one of the steamers in which the rescue of General Gordon was attempted, arrived in London yesterday. Mr. Benbow was engineer of the steamer on which Lord Charles Beresford performed his deeds of gallantry on the Upper Nile; and among his friends he is popularly known as ‘the Man who Mended the Boiler.’ He has come to this country in response to an official telegram.”

Come, all ye Britons, brave and bold,
Whilst I this story do unfold――
(A better tale is seldom told)
The Man who Mended the Boiler!
An Engineer as deft as brave,
With a name that smacks of the salt sea wave,
And a heart as staunch
As the hull of his launch;
And whenever Britons must meet the foe,
May they have such fellows as brave Benbow,
The Man who Mended the Boiler!

’Twas with the Nile fleet he set out,
With Lord Charles Beresford, gay and stout,
Midst the cataract’s roar, and the Arabs’ shout,
The Man who Mended the Boiler.
Khartoum and Gordon ahead did lie,
When a plate in the boiler did start and fly,
With a puff and a crack,
And the pace did slack,
And the Arabs howled at that bang and that puff,
But they knew not that handful of tars so tough,
Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler!

Whilst the jubilant Arabs did howl and dance,
He surveyed the smash with a workman’s glance,
And saw at once that they couldn’t advance,
With a big blank hole in the boiler.
Did he turn up the job like a muff? Oh, no!
That wasn’t the fashion of brave Benbow,
Midstream and still
He worked with a will
Through a dark Nile night and by morning’s light,
He had patched up everything right and tight
The Man who Mended the Boiler!

The Arabs looked from the sandy strand,
And thought that the Britons were brought to a stand;
But those Britons they did not understand,
Nor the Man who Mended the Boiler.
Up steam once more! Midst a roar from the shore,
Away up the Nile the steamer bore.
Let each brim a glass,
Whether lad or lass,
In a health to Lord Charles and his gallant crew,
With a bumper to Benbow stout and true,
The Man who Mended the Boiler!

_Punch._ April 25, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE BAY OF BISCAY, O!

Loud roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers,
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning’s vivid powers;
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day, there she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!

* * * * *

Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent.
When Heaven, all bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent;
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers,
Now we sail, with the gale,
From the Bay of Biscay, O!

ANDREW CHERRY. (_Comedian._ 1762-1812.)

――――

THE NEW-BUILT PLAYHOUSE, O!

Loud roar’d the watchman’s rattle,
Dust-bells began the din,
Announc’d the hour of battle!
’Twas half-price rushing in:
Whilst o’er the rascal crew,
Vast consternation flew
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!

The catcalls next shrill sounding
’Midst O. P.’s vocal strain;
The magic dance, resounding,
Near rent the walls in twain!
Our victors strengthen’d grew,
O’er turned the Bow Street crew,
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!

Then, must’ring up our forces,
Attack’d the thieves again;
But numbered in our losses
A few brave O. P. men.
The victory was ours,
Brave O. P. loudly roars,
At the fight,
On that night,
In the new-built playhouse, O!

From _The Covent Garden Journal_. Vol. 2, (London 1810). Containing an account of the O. P. (old prices) riots at the New Covent Garden Theatre.

――――

THE BAY OF CHELSEA, OH!

Loud roar’d the smoking funnel,
The blacks came down in showers;
The steam-pipe coughs like one ill,
The smoke above us lowers;
The mud both thick and dark
Impedes our wretched bark:
There we lay,
Half a day,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

Now dashed against the gravel,
We crumble, crash, and creak;
At this rate we shan’t travel
A mile within a week
Cries of “Return the fare!”
Now rend the startled air:
“Did we pay,
Here to stay,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!”

At length a wished-for wherry
’Long side of us drew nigh;
The prospect made us merry,
The laugh rose loud and high;
But when, alas! we knew,
’Twould not hold half our crew,
None were gay,
As they lay
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

A little ease to give her
(To make her float we meant),
At once into the river
Her heavy chimney sent.
To swim she now appears,
We give three hearty cheers,
As we scud
Off the mud,
In the Bay of Chelsea, oh!

_Punch_ 1847.

――――

AIR, “_The Bay of Biscay._”

“I cut the ball right under
At least an inch or more;
It was a fatal blunder,
For forty was his score.
I gave him in the dark
Fifteen, so did remark,
’Odds I’ll lay
Any day,
If he’ll give me a bisque, heigh ho!”

* * * * *

From _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. London: Field and Tuer, 1884.

――――:o:――――

HEARTS OF OAK.

Come, cheer up, my lads! ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves;
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Hearts of oak are our ships,
Hearts of oak are our men,
We always are ready:
Steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.

We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away:
If they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore;
For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more.
Hearts of oak, &c.

They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes!
They frighten our women, our children, and beaux;
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o’er,
Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore.
Hearts of oak, &c.

Britannia, triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,
Her standard is Justice――her watchword, “Be free;”
Then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing,
“Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and king.”
Hearts of oak, &c.

DAVID GARRICK.

――――

A NEW SONG.

Come cheer up, my lads, ’tis to Freedom we steer;
No tyrant dictators shall manage us here;
No more shall they send vile dependents on Court,
The birthright of Britons they ne’er will support.
United by _Freedom,_ in _freedom_ remain;
See _Fox_ still is ready,
To our cause ever steady;
Huzza! we’ll elect him again and again.

Since first we adopted THE FOX,[12] as our choice,
To injure the nation he ne’er lent his voice:
His unshaken heart, stout, manly, and bold,
Could ne’er be corrupted our cause to have sold.
United by _Freedom_ &c.

* * * * *

From _The History of the Westminster Election_. 1784.

――――

COME, CHEER UP, MY LADS, MERRY CHRISTMAS IS NEAR.

Come, cheer up, my lads, merry Christmas is near,
And I hope we shall all have a Happy New Year!
Then eat your plum-pudding and drink your strong ale,
And may plenty and peace, in old England ne’er fail;
O, still may our flag be with lustre unfurl’d!
Let’s ever be ready, steady boys, steady,
And true to ourselves we defy all the world.
Oh, still may our flag, &c.

* * * * *

There are five verses in all in this imitation, which may be found in Volume III. (page 37) of _The Universal Songster_.

――――

ANOTHER NEW SONG.

Come, cheer up my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year.
We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,
And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.

CHORUS.――Then firm, my hearts of oak,
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
With hearts always ready,
To fight and to conquer,
Again and again.

M’Kerrell declares when the times have proved good,
The people of England have _three times_ too much food;
And Gladstone, his friend――deserter of our cause――
The King’s Jester has named, to help t’make our laws.
Then firm, my hearts of oak.
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
You’ll always be ready
To keep out a Canning,
Again and again.

Then Tarleton comes forth with his vote-winning smile,
“If I have turned my coat, my heart’s yours all the while;
“Besides, my good friends, by constantly turning
“I must keep your interest on all sides from burning.
“Then listen to my ditty,
“And send me up once more,
“To changing sides steady,
“I always am ready
“To come to the side
“I deserted before,”

Our wise Corporation, poor Gascoyne descry――
His back one sad wound, and tearful his eye――
The flogging they gave him, his hopes had quite damped,
And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped.
Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne,
“Don’t take it so to heart.
“Indeed we didn’t mean it,
“Let Hollingshead clean it,
“And then, _my dear_ fellow,
“You’ll soon lose the smart.”

Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year,
We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,
And send Brougham and Creevey to make known our will.
Then firm, my hearts of oak,
Your votes give like Freemen,
To Liberty steady,
With hearts always ready,
To fight and to conquer,
Again and again.

From _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election_. October, 1812.

(The candidates were the Right Hon. George Cannings Lt.-General Isaac Gascoyne, Henry Brougham, Thomas Creevey, and General B. Tarleton. George Canning and General Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.)

――――

DOWN WITH THE LORDS.

Unfurl the old flag once again to the fore,
While firmly we march as our fathers of yore;
Our war-cry is “Freedom,” our cause is our right,
Our well-trusted leaders are Gladstone and Bright.

_Chorus._
Then down with the Lords! our duty is plain;
For the fray we are ready;
Steady, men, steady;
We have conquered before, and we’ll conquer again.

The flouts and the sneers of these senators born,
And their impotent threats we can laugh them to scorn,
Arise, and like phantoms they’ll fade from our view,
For we are the million, and they are the few.

What think they, these Peers, in their arrogant pride?
Are we slaves that their hauteur can put us aside?
Do they think that their cunning we cannot requite,
When they’d filch with their left what they’d give with their
right?

Rouse, brothers, rouse! ’tis our own that we claim,
And the power that they wield, why, it is but a name;
Then let them beware in their tinselled array,
Ere a blast of our anger shall sweep them away!

JAMES TILSON WRIGHT.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ August 24, 1884.

――――

TRUTH AND RIGHT.

The day dawns upon us, the fight is at hand,
When the voice of the people shall ring through the land;
Peace, Progress, Reform and Retrenchment――our guide――
Shall be the man’s watchword in whom we confide.

_Chorus._
Truth and Right are our weapons, untarnished with stain;
Our forces are ready, trusty and steady――
We’ll vote for the men who can lead the campaign.

Deserted, forgotten, our rights, long ignored,
Have been tossed to the winds for coercion and sword――
The yoke of taxation has burdened our isle.
Our trades and our industries ne’er seem to smile.

We will send forth the men who will zealously toil
To improve the condition of “sons of the soil,”
Whose hearts beat with ours, who know what we feel――
The labouring masses who grind at the wheel.

And men who are staunch to the cause they profess,
Who will grapple each task to relieve our distress,
Who can write on their banner――for ever unfurled――
“A prosperous country, at peace with the world!”

JESSE H. WHEELER.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ October 25, 1885.

――――

GLADSTONE’S POLICY.

Arouse, men of England, the strife’s drawing near,
Stand fast for the Right and the man we revere,
’Tis but justice we ask for our friends o’er the waves:
Let Ireland be free, not a nation of slaves.

_Chorus._
A fig for the Whigs, and for Salisbury’s men;
They fear us already,
Steady, boys, steady,
For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

Seceders may sneer at the chief they betrayed,
And boast how the game of the Tory they played;
Let them stand, hand in hand, where Coercion’s in store,
Their names will be scorned when themselves are no more.

_Chorus._
We care not for Whigs nor for Salisbury’s men;
They fear us already,
Steady, boys, steady,
For Ireland and Gladstone again and again!

D. EVANS.
_The Weekly Dispatch._ June 27, 1886.

――――

GLADSTONE’S MISTAKE.

Awake, sons of Britain, don’t let it be said
When comes the election that Reason was dead.
’Tis important to all that a measure so rash
As Gladstone’s should speedily fall with a crash.

_Chorus._
He’s made a mistake, though the greatest of men;
The bill’s doomed already,
Then, Will, pray be steady,
You know you’ll be sorry again and again.

Admirers of William, who cling to him strong,
All seem to imagine he cannot do wrong;
By sticking to him through this “mad-headed” plan
Gives rise to the thought that they worship the “man,”

_Chorus._
He’s made a mistake, so be honest, be men,
The bill’s doomed already,
Be up and ready;
If not, you’ll repent it again and again.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ July 4, 1886.

――――:o:――――

THE SKIPPER’S SONG.
(Air――_Obvious_.)

A death on the ocean wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
For the Skipper whose owners save
On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!
I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek,
Swede, Fin, and Portugee――
And all the lingoes they speak
Are heathen Greek to me!
So a death on the Ocean Wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
When I’m knived or knocked on the head,
Some night, when no watch I keep.

For they all of ’em wear long knives,
And some have got pistols too,
And mine and my mates’ dear lives
Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw!
They will take us unawares.
Like stuck pigs we shall die,
With no time to say our prayers,
And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.”
For a death on the Ocean Wave,
And a grave in the rolling deep,
Is the Skipper’s whose owners save
On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap!

_Punch._ May 27, 1876.

――――

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAIVE.
(Composed by Mr. Twitters, after a rough passage from
Boulogne.)

A life on the ocean waive,
Don’t try for a home on the deep――
For your scattered senses rave,
If well you expect to keep.
Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine,
For the fresh and wholesome shore.
Or, heaving upon the brine,
For a “Basin, steward,” roar.
Then a life, &c.

On deck I tried to stand,
But I could not, with all my craft;
I asked them to let me land,
But the feelingless sailors laughed.
For to me was the sparkling foam
Ipecacuanah tea.
Oh! the tartar emetic’s home
Is certainly on the sea.
So a life, &c.

The sky turned to black from blue,
And didn’t the rain come down!
“You’d be better below,” said the crew.
I only replied by a frown!
But my counsel now shall be,
Unless you, a madman, rave,
Don’t live on the tossing sea――
A home on the billows waive.
Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c.

From _The Man in the Moon_. Vol. 3.

――――:o:――――

I’M AFLOAT.

(The Premier’s vacation parody on board Sir Donald Currie’s ship, “_The Pembroke Castle_.”)

I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide.
In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride.
Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.
I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw,
They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;”
For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel
At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal.

Quick, quick, stoke her fires, and come calm or come wind,
I will warrant we’ll soon leave land worries behind.
Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea,
I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free.

Though that growler should carp, and this snarler be heard,
The steamer, unheeding, skims on like a bird.
What to us is the shout of Conservative pain?
As we’re well out of hearing, it’s uttered in vain.
The enemy’s strokes ineffectively fall,
Be they never so smart they’ve no power to appal,
As with fresh air on deck, and snug comfort below,
Through the holiday waters right onward we go.

Hurrah! then my mates, we may lounge, we may sleep,
Party rancour is hushed, we’re alone on the deep;
Our flag of defiance still waves o’er the sea――
We’re afloat!――we’re afloat! and the Old Man is free.

_Funny Folks._ September 22, 1883.

――――

SONG OF THE PICKPOCKET.

There’s a flat, there’s a flat, on the opposite side,
The country’s his home, and his nose is his guide,
Quick, quick, trip him up, knock his hat o’er his eyes,
And we’ll take out his wipe on the ground as he lies.

I heed not the beaks, I fear not their claws;
My object I’ll compass in spite of the laws;
I ne’er will give up to a tyrant of Peel’s,
Nor yield to a soul while I still have my heels.

_The Puppet Show._ April 1, 1848.

――――

I’M A SHOT.

I’m a shot, I’m a shot, I’m my Company’s pride,
The range is my home, and my rifle my bride,
Up, up with the flag, let it wave o’er the plain,
I’ve hit the bull’s eye, and I’ll hit it again.

I fear not the serjeant, I heed not the cells,
I’ve a ball in my pouch on the target that tells;
And ne’er as a slave, but a soldier I’ll kneel
With a most inconvenient seat on my heel.
I’m a shot, I’m a shot, &c.

――――

THE SONG OF THE FLOAT.

I’m a float! I’m a float; on the deep rolling tide,
I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride;
The bright crystal flood is my natural home,
Be it smooth as a mirror, or flashing with foam.
My body’s of cork, of an olive green hue,
And my tip as the needle magnetic is true.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest,
I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast;
And I think all the time how hot it must be
Over there where my master lies under the tree,
A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,
Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!
I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,
And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way,
I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee,
As a ducking I get when they top over _me_.
And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel,
With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel!
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint,
At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint;
And then, if I see a big scaly’un look
With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook,
A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill,
And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait,
To my master the news in a crack I relate――
Yes!――no!――eh?――bravo?――“bob!”――right under I go!
But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so.
Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make,
A big golden carp pulling well in my wake!
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide,
I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride!
I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream,
No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream.
So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care,
For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share.
I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

_The Angler’s Journal._ April 3, 1886.

――――:o:――――

OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?

Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began:――

Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt,
At the cook-shop a little up town,
How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass,
For the pannum you sent rolling down?

The other commenced thus:――

Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt,
Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown?
How she danced all the night, and drank with delight,
Just to keep up her fame and renown.

――――

WHEN “BOLT.”

Oh! dont you remember the days when “Bolt”
Was the dodge that did landlords so “brown,”
When on quarter day morns we have oft “shot the moon,”
And been off to a new part of town?
The old watchman always would let us then bolt,
Of our actions no knowledge would own;
But policeman are so wide awake now-adays,
We should surely be caught ere we’d flown.

Oh! don’t you remember our tradesmen, when “Bolt”
Was the way to stop duns for small bills――
When they knew that to claim their demands would entail
Declarations, court-fees, and such ills?
The system has gone to decay, and when “Bolt”
Is the rule, or some game of the sort,
They straight bring an action, and us they can take
For contempt of a vile County Court.

Oh! don’t you remember the days when “Bolt”
Was the word that the billmen overthrew――
When we left our acceptance, ne’er fearing a writ,
And at Boulogne moustaches we grew?
The sea is thought nothing, and now when “Bolt”
We do, we the law can’t defy;
For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue
The debtor where’er he may fly.

_Diogenes._ Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854.

I have not met with any other parodies of _Ben Bolt_, although it is probable that many have been written, as the song was very popular some years since.

――――:o:――――

THE STORM.

Cease, rude Boreas, blust’ring railer!
List, ye landsmen, all to me!
Messmates, hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea;
From bounding billows, first in motion,
When the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest troubled ocean,
Where the seas contend with skies!

* * * * *

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don’t mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,
Reef the mizen, see all clear,
Hands up, each preventure brace set,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!

G. A. STEVENS (died 1784.)

――――

CEASE, RUDE BOREAS.
(_By a worried Editor._)

Cease to bore us, and assail us,
Writers! with your pens so free!
List the tale――though’t won’t avail us,
And our troubles you shall see!
While around us roars the thunder,
Of the Postman’s double knocks;
Till our Housemaid stares with wonder,
And our Tiger’s nerves it shocks.

We have things oft sent that fright us,
And regard them all with scorn,
Pieces too that oft delight us,
And our breasts with rapture warm!
For the _first_――why we reject ’em
Or affront our readers sense,
For the _second_――we accept ’em,
Or we drive Subscribers hence!

Do not then too harsly judge us,
When we cast your trash aside;
Or of feelings good begrudge us
The exercise, both broad and wide!
We’re IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us,
And to each give merit due;
Full as honest――though you flout us,
As the mass of STOCKINGS BLUE!

_The Monthly Belle Assemblée._ September, 1836.

――――

SONG FOR THE DOUCHE.

Cease to lure us ’bout the ocean,
Neptune’s is an easy couch,
Listen while a fellow patient
Sings the dangers of the Douche;
Stripped and shivering――quite defenceless――
Stunned by its terrific roar――
Now you’re shouting――now you’re senseless――
Now you’re dashed upon the floor.

Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,――
“Stand up, ’twouldn’t hurt a child;”
Still in vain for mercy calling,――
“Bathman, please to ‘draw it mild’.”
Now ’tis over, rub and dress you;
Now the nerves are in full play,
“Bathman I’m all glowing――bless you,
Can’t I have one every day?”

Now all you in sick beds lying,
Victims to each false alarm;
Pill and potion vainly trying
Only doing further harm.
Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors
Are but fancies of the brain,
They must smile at vulgar errors,
Who would health and strength regain.

Would you climb the rugged mountain,
Would you hear sweet warblers sing,
Come and taste the crystal fountain,――
Nature’s pure life-giving spring;
Breathe the tainted air no longer,
Leave your sickly painful couch,
Every bath shall make you stronger,
Nervous sufferers try the Douche.

From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.)

――――:o:――――

“POLY.”
(A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos
of the “Polyphemus.”)

Do you want to know the ugliest craft
That ever put from port?
Well that’s the _Poly_, the steel ram’d _Poly_,
And she’s a rare rum sort.
Open your peepers and look my lads,
She’s lobbing agen the quay,
The sootiest craft afore and abaft
That ever shamed the sea.
Afloat, afloat, d’ye call _her_ a boat?
Black deck, no white sails furled!
_Poly_, grim _Poly_,
Tame as “loblolly,’
The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want to know the latest thing
To make a true tar dull?
Well, that’s the _Poly_, this precious _Poly_,
And darn her dirty hull!
Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there,
Like a porpoise heavy with grog;
Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns,
Her hull like a lifeless log.
Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat,
Low down, no sail unfurled;
_Poly_, grim _Poly_,
Our nautical folly,
The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want a toast to-night, my lads,
Afore we says good-bye?
Well, here’s short life to the lumbering _Poly_,
And blarm her hulk, says I.
Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads,
Drink in sepulchral tones:
“May a storm soon send this confounded _Poly_
To supper with David Jones.”
Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat,
When the waves in heaps are hurled?
_Poly_, black _Poly_,
Fraud melancholy,
The ugliest craft in the world!

_Punch._ July 23, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE DEATH OF NELSON.
From the Opera of “The Americans.”

RECITATIVE

O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed,
Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest;
But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years,
Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears.

AIR.

Twas in Trafalgar’s bay
We saw the Frenchmen lay;
Each heart was bounding then.
We scorn’d the foreign yoke,
Our ships were British oak,
And hearts of oak our men

Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave,
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,
Nor thought of home and beauty.
Along the line this signal ran――
“England expects that every man
This day will do his duty.”

* * * * *

England confess’d that every man
That day had done his duty.

S. J. ARNOLD.

――――

THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD.

_Recitative._

O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest,
Britannia weeps,――that face with bandage dress’d,
But that bright nose shall never fade with years,
Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears.

’Twas in the Spithead Bay
We saw Bill Swiggins lay,
He loudly swearing, then;
We owed him for a joke
Which at the British Oak,
He levell’d at our men――
Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave,
Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave,
Nor thought of home or duty;
Before the shine this signal ran,
“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man;
This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

And now we ply the oar,
And stretching from the shore,
Our Thompson clove the spray;
His ship the Sarah named,
Long Sarah had been famed
For squabbles night and day;
But dearly was our victory bought,
Our hero’s nose a stinger caught,
For Sarah, home, and duty;
He cried, as to his foe he ran,
“We owe a grudge to that ’ere man,
This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”

But, oh! the dreadful wound,
Which sent the “claret” round,
The hero’s nose received.
Then, sinking on his side,
“Our boat’s going o’er,” he cried;
“But long enough I’ve lived,
I’ve black’d his other eye at last,
Have had revenge for insults pass’d
On Sarah, home, and duty!”
Thus ends the row as it began――
Portsmouth confess’d that each brave man
Had spoilt the other’s beauty!

_Diogenes._ July, 1853.

――――

THE GREAT UNEMPLOYED.
(_A Song for Scotland Yard._ Air――“_The Death of Nelson._”)

’Twas in Trafalgar Square
We heard Sedition blare;
Each heart was sickened then.
We’d scorned the foreign Reds
Who cracked each other’s heads,
But here were madder men.
Henderson marked them howl and rave,
But little heed that hero gave.
Let Roughdom smash and loot, he
Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan.
And London owned at least one man
That day that shirked his duty.

And now the rabble roar,
And plunder as they pour;
No Bobbies stop the way.
London, for order famed,
Is startled, shocked, and shamed
By this disgraceful day!
Right dearly is experience bought,
The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought,
Unchecked, for drink and booty.
From mouth to mouth the murmur ran,
“London has found a trusted man
This day has shirked his duty.”

Pride feels a painful wound,
Dismay is spread around;
Our trust has been deceived.
But shirkers must be tried,
If need be, thrust aside,
Our credit be retrieved.
Policedom’s honour is at stake,
Policedom from its drowse must wake,
It guards home, wealth, age, beauty,
From Chief to youngest guardian,
London _must_ know that every man
Is equal to his duty!

_Punch._ February, 1886.

――――

_Innes’s London Comic Songster_――(London: Simpkin & Marshall, N. D.)――contained a coarse parody, entitled:――

PADDY’S GRAVE.

’Twas at the Pig and Cat
Where Judy met her Pat,
With his big nose so red:
“Oh!” says she, “you are untrue;
And faith, I’ll punish you,”
And then she broke his head!
Her brother Ted was standing by,
Who nately black’d her father’s eye,
For he was bold and frisky;
Yet through the bogs this was the cry,
Ireland expects you won’t be shy,
But fight for love and whiskey!

(_Two verses omitted._)

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS.

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these;
But of all the world’s brave heroes, there’s none that can
compare,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British
grenadier.

Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon-ball,
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British
grenadiers.