I was highly entertained with these characteristic sketches of the man-of-war’s man, and the old boys seemed delighted with the opportunity of relating their former achievements. I was also much pleased with the deference they seemed to pay to each other, and the attachment which appeared to exist amongst them. The grog, however, began to operate a little, and the question was put, “whether his honour would like to hear a song?” Of course I acceded to any thing that was calculated to increase their enjoyments, and one of the younger men of the party--a marine, but blind--gave us the following song, which my old chaperon whispered to me was one of his own making. “NED SPLICE was a tar as devoid of all fear As e’er swabb’d a deck from the spray of a sea; He knew every rope, and could hand, reef, and steer,-- Book-larning, why, Lord! ’twas all dickey to he. Our chaplain could spin out a very fine yarn, And bother each man in his mess; Says NED, ‘My brave boys, if your duty you’d larn, ’Tis--succour a friend in distress.’ “‘Ne’er get drunk!’ says the priest, with a wave of his fist, ‘Never swear;--never covet another man’s prog;’ But see him next day, when he’s cheating at _whist_-- My eyes! ’tis a storm in an ocean of grog. Says NED, ‘them ’ere maxims I don’t understand, We should practice the thing we profess;’ While the pray’r from his heart, and the gold from his hand, He gives to a friend in distress.” This song was sung with no small degree of feeling and taste. Other songs followed, with a few characteristic observations and sentimental touches between them, till the termination of one which had for its burthen. “Thus smiling at peril, at sea or on shore, We box the whole compass round cheerly; Toss the can, boys, again;--drink the king! and what’s more, We’ll drink to the girls we love dearly!” “Sweet creatures!” exclaimed Bill Jennings “I loves ’em all a little, d’ye see; for what’s a sailor without a sweetheart? Why, he’s like a ship without a rib,--like a mast without stays,--like a lanniard without a dead-eye,--like a binnacle without a compass,--or a block without a sheave. Pretty dears! they’re the very ach-me of a sailor’s hopes,--the main-top of his heart. What, though the Turks think they’ve got no souls, you and I, your honour, both of us know, (and which of us doesn’t?) that they have got souls and spirits too, bless ’em! for I take it that’s much the same thing. I’ve seen ’em of all colours and shapes from the Hopping-tops at the Cape to the Axquemo near the North Pole; but there’s none to beat our own countrywomen. All the Wenuses of Italy,--all the beauties of Buss-aloney,--all the brilliant black eyes of Spanish America, can’t box the compass with the dear little lasses of our native land.