And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, For I’ve only lost an eye and got a timber toe; But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission. Nor again the anchor weigh with yo, heave ho! So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs, My boys shall well revenge my wrongs, And my girls shall breed young sailors nobly for to face the foe; Then to country and king, Fate can no danger bring, While the tars of old England sing out yo, heave ho! CHARLES DIBDIN. ―――― A WORD FROM TOM TOUGH. Yes, my name, d’ye see’s Tom Tough, and I’ve seed a sight o’ service Where the waves have rolled like mountains and the howling winds have blown, And I’ve never shirked my dooty, and to feel what want of nerve is Is a thing――I says it proudly――as I’ve never, never known. No; I’ve tried with my lot to be always content, And never gone in for a railer, But I’ve taken the things as Dame Fortune has sent, Like a honest and brave British sailor! And I’m not complainin’ now. No! I’d scorn the very notion. Though I fear as ’ow Shipowners isn’t quite the best o’ men; But you see I’m gettin’ older than when fust I sailed the ocean. And there’s reasons for my speakin’ which was not existin’ then. For now I’ve a wife and four little ones, too, More sober and cautious to make me; For it’s Heaven only knows what it is they could do, If disaster and death overtake me. ’Lor! I’ve been to sea in ships as I knowed was well-nigh rotten; I’ve a-sailed with big deck cargoes as was scandalus to see; And I’ve run so many risks that I’ve half o’ them forgotten, And I never once protested, no, nor grumbled, sir――not me! But, then, as I’ve said, there was only Tom Tough, And no one to bother about him; And if _he_ comed to grief, why, ’twas certain enough That the world could get well on without him. But the matter’s changed entirely since the bonniest o’ lasses, Swore she’d ever love me truly; for since then, where’er I roam, Why, my heart with fervent longing, that all other thoughts surpasses, Keeps a-turning ever constant towards my happy little home, For there sits my Polly a-waiting for me, Her heart, with the billows, time beating, Whilst each of our little ones bend at her knee―― A prayer for its father repeating.