_Chorus:_ The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird; Of the Sea, likewise, and the Shore! "O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly To a heaven, of aloes and gall! I have honeyed," he yammers, "my nose and mine eye, And the bees cannot sting me at all! And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee, Or to blister my hands on a rope, Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea On a deck like a mountain-slope!" _Chorus:_ With her mast snapt short, and a list to port And a deck like a mountain-slope. But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice When that roar from the woods out-break-- _R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice!_ "Now, wherefore rejoice In the music a bear could make? 'Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree; Yet in this I out-argued him fair! Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie, By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!" _Chorus:_ Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie, By'r Lakin, no _Sense_ in a _Bear_! He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud: He was growling it over again, When--a strange sound suddenly froze his blood, And curdled his big slow brain!-- A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws Gripping the bark of his tree, Softly ascended! Like lightning ended His honey-comb reverie! _Chorus:_ The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves shivered! _Something was climbing the tree!_ Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook, Or a pirate of fourteen ton! But it clomb like a cat (tho' the whole tree shook) Stealthily tow'rds the sun, Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring Overhead, which he calls the sky, It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing Which--_hath larded its nose and its eye._ _Chorus:_ O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing Hath blinkered its little red eye.