"Wait a minute while I shuts the door, else they kids'll be down for more supper." "Us got it, an't us?" "Yes, but _they_'ve had enough." When Tony sings, he throws his head back and closes his eyes, so that, but for the motions of his mouth, he looks asleep, even deathlike, and is, in fact, withdrawn into himself. I think he sees his songs, as well as sings them. I often wonder what pictures are flitting through his mind beneath (as I imagine) the place where the thick grizzled hair thins to the red forehead. His voice is a high tenor. I make accompaniment an octave below, whilst Mrs Widger--a little nasal in tone and not infrequently adrift in tune--supports him from above. We sang "The Poor Smuggler's Boy"-- Your pity I crave, Won't you give me employ? Or forlorn I must wander, Said the poor smuggler's boy. Then the "Skipper and his Boy"-- Over the mounting waves so 'igh, We'll sail together, my boy and I-I, We'll sail together, my bo-oy and I! "Have 'ee wrote to George?" Tony asked. "'Tis your place to du that." "I an't got time...." "Thee asn't got time for nort!" The fisher's is a merry life! Blow, winds, blow! The fisher and his vitty wife! Row, boys, row! He drives no plough on stubborn land, His fruits are ready to his hand. No nipping frosts his orchards fear, He has his autumn all the year, Blow, winds, blow! The farmer has his rent to pay, Blow, winds, blow! And seeds to purchase every day, Row, boys, row! But he who farms the rolling deep, He never sows, can always reap, The ocean's fields are fair and free, There ain't no rent days on the sea; The fisher's is a merry life! Blow, winds, blow! Blow, damn ye, blow! "Aye!" said Tony with conviction, "thic's one side o'it." [Sidenote: "_ROLLING HOME_"] He tried a note or two at different pitches, then struck with energy into the fine song, "Rolling Home." (Who that has steered for England in a ship--and by ship I do not mean a bustling steam-packet or a floating hotel, but a ship to whose crew England stands for fresh food, women, wine, home.... Who that has so steered the course for England, does not feel a catch at his vitals on hearing the melody, at once plaintive and triumphant, of "Rolling Home?") Pipe all hands to man the capstan, see your cables run down clear; Soon our ship will weigh her anchor, for old England's shores we steer; If we heave round with a will boys, soon our anchor it will trip, And across the briny ocean we will steer our gallant ship: Rolling home, rolling home! Rolling home across the sea! Rolling home to Merrie England! Rolling home, true love, to thee!