There’s topsails, top-gallant sails, staysails also, There’s stunsails on both sides aloft and below, There’s royals, and skysails, stargazers so high, By the sound of one pipe everything it must fly. Now, my brave boys, comes the best of the fun, It’s hands about ship and reef topsails in one; Our hands go aloft when the helm it goes down, Lower away topsails when the mainyard goes round. Trice up and lie out, and take two reefs in one, In a moment of time all this work must be done; Man your head braces, your haulyards, and all, And hoist away topsails when it’s let go and haul. As for the use of tobacco, all thoughts leave behind; If you spit upon deck then your death warrant’s signed If you spit overboard either gangway or stern, You are sure of six dozen by the way of no harm. But worse than all this, I have known them to stop A week’s wine or grog if you spill but one drop; Either forward or aft I would have you keep clear, Or the bell, or cook’s funnel, will fall to your share. Come, all brother seamen, wherever you be, From all fancy frigates I’d have you keep clear; Take compassion all on us, and never forget, Those poor pipe-clay rangers so called of late. _THE SAUCY SCYLLA._ Come all you who delight in a frolicksome song, Concerning the _Scylla_ it will not keep you long; Concerning the _Scylla_, a ship of great fame, She had the Bahama station, and bore a great name. At four in the morning the work it came on, For sand and for holy stones loud was the song; For fore and main topmen loud was the call, For sand and for holy stones both great and small. The next thing to divisions your hammocks you bring, You must have them as snug and as round as a ring; With your lanyards and lacings, all made up so neat, Or to carry them all day on our shoulders was our fate. There is someone we know well, a British old Turk, Would go creeping and snarling as the men were at work; ‘Hurrah! bear a hand, men, or you I’ll report:’ Then he’d walk you on the carpet like a prisoner at court. Two bells in the evening--’twas the drummer once more-- Beat all hands to quarters with your bayonets and swords. ‘Cast loose, clear for action,’ our lieutenant cries, With the rest of good drilling and much exercise. After quarters was over, there was one thing more, All hands to reef top sails, which grieved us full sore; ‘Men, man the rigging,’ our lieutenant would cry, Rise up, and lay out your reef points to tie. In less than two minutes our top sails must be reef’d, All sail set above them so snug and complete; For black-listing and drilling grieved us to the heart, For our six-watered grog it just measured one quart.