Now, of course, it may be cheaper, or, at leastways, for the present, To ship a lot o’ furrin’ trash, and sack my mates and me; But I’m thinking in the future it may turn out most unpleasant, And that what’s now the cheapest may the dearest come to be. Say, for instance, there was fighting, And the time came for uniting The Navy with the merchantmen to keep away the foe, Do ye think the Greeks and Prooshians, And the Chinamen and Rooshians, Would be eager for to help you with a “Yo, heave ho”? Do ye think they’d care a button what became of our old country, Or raise their little fingers to help England rule the seas? No, they’d all be in a flurry just to bolt off, hurry-skurry, Would your Coolies and your Kroomen and your Arabs and Chinese; Whilst the tars on whose assistance May depend the land’s existence In the day of sore extremity, which it too soon may know, Will be found prepared no longer England’s Navy to make stronger, Or to volunteer for service, with a “Yo, heave ho!” Aye, the new crews may be cheaper, but I’d ask you was it Lascars And John Chinamen and such like that first England’s Empire made? Was it furriner’s devotion sailed her ships o’er every ocean, And opened every corner of the world up to her trade? For the sake, then, of the story Of old England’s naval glory, You surely now some justice to our sailors ought to show, And let British brain and sinew Still on British ships continue, Nor let a furrin lingo drown the British “Yo, heave ho!” _Truth_, April 15, 1886. ――――:o:―――― THE SAILOR’S JOURNAL. ’Twas post meridian, half-past four, By signal I from Nancy parted, At six she linger’d on the shore, With uplift hands and broken hearted. At seven, while taughtening the forestay, I saw her faint, or else ’twas fancy; At eight we all got under weigh, And bade a long adieu to Nancy! * * * * * At last,――’twas in the month of May,―― The crew, it being lovely weather, At three A.M. discover’d day And England’s chalky cliffs together. At seven up Channel how we bore, While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy, At twelve I gaily jumped ashore, And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy. CHARLES DIBDIN. ―――― A SAILOR’S JOURNAL. (_Adapted from Dibdin to the sad Circumstances of the Day._)