He began:
Of all the lives, I ever say,
A pirate's be for I;
Hap what hap may he's allus gay
And drinks an' bungs his eye.
For his work he's never loath;
An' a-pleasurin' he will go;
Tho' sartin sure to be popt off,
Yo ho, with the rum below.
At the conclusion of the stanza his audience broke into loud
applause. And then, with a sheepish air that set me a-smiling,
Joseph Runnles, my bedfellow, the little silent man of whom I have
spoken, drew out of his pocket the parts of a flute, and putting
them together, set it to his lips and accompanied Joe through the
next stanza, picking up the tune with a facility that spoke well
for his musical ear.
In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
Well stored wi' togs and gold;
An' off I goes to sea for more,
A-piratin' so bold.
An' wounded in the arm I got,
An' then a pretty blow;
Comes home I finds Poll flowed away.
Yo ho, with the rum below.
"Adad, brother," cries Joe, clapping the little man on the
shoulder, "why have you stowed away your noble talents so long
under hatches? I've sailed the seas for many a year; east, west,
north and south, as the saying is; Blacks, Indians, Moors,
Morattos, and Sepoys; but smite my timbers, never such a man of
music have I drawn alongside of before."
Runnles blushed like a girl, and said never a word, but blew the
moisture out of his flute, ready for the next stanza.
An' when my precious leg was lopt.
Just for a bit of fun,
I picks it up, on t'other hopt,
An' rammed it in a gun.
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