The bloody old wall-sided cranky concern-- I think every squall she is sure to o'erturn, And the way that she rolls and goes pitching about Would have made all the patience of Job fizzle out. It's enough to provoke a good parson to swear, To see the bad way her old rotten sails tear, And I never go higher aloft than the top Without fear that the foot-ropes will give me a drop. I wonder those owners are suffered to live Who send out a ship that will leak like a sieve, Which every time that she gives a bad jump Makes fifty more strokes to be worked at the pump. We ought to arrest the old man as a cheat For bringing us here where there's nothing to eat; It's a terrible shame for an old Yankee tub To feed her good men with such horrible grub. To be sure, he now and then gives us some flour; But the mean dirty rat, it's because it's gone sour, And as for his pies and the dried apple sauce, I'd a precious deal rather have good old salt horse. We slave every week day on board of the craft, But on Sunday the hypocrite makes us come aft-- He preaches an hour about Christian hopes, Then sends us on deck to give swigs at the ropes. There's a heap of good sense in the famous old rule Always choose a big rascal before a great fool. And one thing I promise, whatever may happen, I'll not sail again with a psalm-singing Cap'n. The ship must have been in amazing great straits When she took such poor things as these men are for mates. It worries one's temper beyond all its bounds To be bossed round the decks by such humbugging hounds. Now! shipmates, you know I'm not given to growl, And I hate a bad temper with all of my soul; But worked and most starved till one scarcely can crawl, A man that won't growl is just no man at all. SAILORS' OPINIONS. PART II. "LAST SHIP." Last time I went to sea I sailed on board the _Rocket_; Those were good days for me And money in my pocket. She was a perfect boat, An easy one to handle-- For speed no ship afloat Could hold to her a candle. She tacked just like a yacht And lay to like a duck; If others thrived or not She always was in luck. The owners fitted out In such a liberal way, All things were trim and stout From keel to royal stay. The captain was a trump-- A perfect "saint in boots"; He never gave a thump To greenhorns nor galoots. The mates were tip-top men, Gave us our watch below; No oaths and curses then Though it blew high or low. We mustered aft to prayer And navigation classes-- We had the best of fare And lots of duff and 'lasses I've sailed for many a year And soon will have to dock it; But while I've breath I'll cheer And brag about the _Rocket_.