It is a strangely picturesque scene; the flickering blaze of the fire lighting up the groups of men stretched on the sand in various attitudes of negligent ease, their bare muscular limbs contrasting in almost startling whiteness with their bearded faces, bronzed almost black with exposure to the tropical sun. Some are drinking the scalding hot tea, which is now passed round in pannikins; while others are toasting fish, spitted on a stick for want of a more elaborate apparatus, and served up on a biscuit; a few grains of powder from the cartridges—which had been brought in case of an attack, supplying the place of salt, which had of course been forgotten. Our hunger is too great after our arduous exertions to notice any little defects in the cooking, and a hearty meal is enjoyed by all. Soon a pleasant odour of tobacco arises, as a circle is formed round a glorious fire, and a measure of grog is handed round by a corporal to each man. This latter luxury is supplied by the officers, who have in turn been indebted to the men for the tea which they had hospitably pressed on them. ‘Now, my lads, for a song,’ says the officer in command; and after some little demur as to who shall commence, a man strikes up an old sea-song describing the wreck of the _Ramilies_, near Plymouth, a number of verses with a chorus to each: With close-reefed tops’ls neatly spread, She sought for to weather the old Rame Head. A fine effect is produced as the chorus is taken up by thirty deep voices, many of the men, with a sailor’s natural aptitude for music, singing the second and bass; and the unusual volume of sound drowns for a moment the deafening noises of the beasts and insects that are holding their usual nocturnal concert in the neighbouring jungle. ‘Well done the starboard watch!’ says a man when the song is concluded. ‘Now the port.’ And soon another song begins: ’Twas in Cawsand Bay lying, With the Blue-Peter flying, And all hands aboard for the anchor to weigh, There came a young lady, As fair as a May-day, And modestly hailing, this damsel did say— I forget the exact words that the lady made use of, though the quaint phraseology much amused me at the time, but I remember that she wanted her true love, a seaman on board; but the captain declined her request, although He said with emotion, ‘What son of the ocean But would his assistance to Ellen afford.’ In the climax, however, the lady unexpectedly turned the tables in her favour, for Out of her pocket she hauls his discharge! Chorus— For out of her pocket she hauls his discharge!