A death on the ocean wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, For the Skipper whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap! I’ve French, Dutch, Turk, and Greek, Swede, Fin, and Portugee―― And all the lingoes they speak Are heathen Greek to me! So a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, When I’m knived or knocked on the head, Some night, when no watch I keep. For they all of ’em wear long knives, And some have got pistols too, And mine and my mates’ dear lives Aren’t worth a tobaccy-screw! They will take us unawares. Like stuck pigs we shall die, With no time to say our prayers, And no chance to exchange “Good-bye.” For a death on the Ocean Wave, And a grave in the rolling deep, Is the Skipper’s whose owners save On a foreign crew, dirt-cheap! _Punch._ May 27, 1876. ―――― A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAIVE. (Composed by Mr. Twitters, after a rough passage from Boulogne.) A life on the ocean waive, Don’t try for a home on the deep―― For your scattered senses rave, If well you expect to keep. Like a puppy whipt you’ll whine, For the fresh and wholesome shore. Or, heaving upon the brine, For a “Basin, steward,” roar. Then a life, &c. On deck I tried to stand, But I could not, with all my craft; I asked them to let me land, But the feelingless sailors laughed. For to me was the sparkling foam Ipecacuanah tea. Oh! the tartar emetic’s home Is certainly on the sea. So a life, &c. The sky turned to black from blue, And didn’t the rain come down! “You’d be better below,” said the crew. I only replied by a frown! But my counsel now shall be, Unless you, a madman, rave, Don’t live on the tossing sea―― A home on the billows waive. Yes, a life on the ocean waive, &c. From _The Man in the Moon_. Vol. 3. ――――:o:―――― I’M AFLOAT. (The Premier’s vacation parody on board Sir Donald Currie’s ship, “_The Pembroke Castle_.”) I’m afloat! I’m afloat! on the swift rolling tide. In the “liner” which Currie has lent me with pride. Up, up with my flag, let it wave o’er the sea, I’m afloat! I’m afloat! and the Old Man is free. I fear not my critics, I laugh at their jaw, They shall find that for once I’m not easy to “draw;” For now at my breakfast no rage can I feel At the journal report of some Tory stump squeal.