For howling winds and waves to boot, With black rocks on the lee, Did not so well my fancy suit, As Susan on my knee. _Chorus_.--With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee. Next morning we were cast away upon the Frenchman's shore, We saved our lives, but not our all, for we could save no more; They marched us to a prison, so we lost our liberty, I peeped between the bars, and sighed for Susan on my knee. For bread so black, and wine so sour, And a son a-day to me, Made me long ten times an hour, For Susan on my knee. _Chorus_--For Susan on my knee, my boys, For Susan on my knee. One night we smashed our jailer's skull and off our boat did steer, And in the offing were picked up by a jolly privateer; We sailed in her the cruise, my boys, and prizes did take we, I'll be at Portsmouth soon, thinks I, with Susan on my knee. We shared three hundred pounds a man, I made all sail with glee, Again I danced and tossed my can, With Susan on my knee. _Chorus_.--With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee. "That's prime, Jemmy. Now, my boys, all together," cried Obadiah Coble. _Chorus_.--Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; We are all here for mirth and glee, We are all here for jollity. Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; Put your hats on to keep your heads warm, A little more grog will do us no harm. "Hurrah! now, Bill Spurey, suppose you tip us a stave. But I say, Babette, you Dutch-built galliot, tell old Frank Slush to send us another dose of the stuff; and d'ye hear, a short pipe for me, and a paper o' baccy." The short, fat Babette, whose proportions all the exercise of waiting upon the customers could not reduce, knew quite enough English to require no further explanation. "Come, Jemmy, my hearty, take your fingers off your fiddle, and hand in your pot," continued Coble; "and then if they are not going to dance, we'll have another song. Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat. Here's more 'baccy, Short." Short made no reply, but he shook out the ashes and filled his pipe. The music did not strike up again, so Bill Spurey sang as follows:-- Says the parson one day, as I cursed a Jew, Do you know, my lad, that we call it a sin? I fear of you sailors there are but few, St Peter, to heaven, will ever let in. Says I, Mr Parson, to tell you my mind, No sailors to knock were ever yet seen, Those who travel by land may steer 'gainst wind, But we shape a course for Fidler's Green.