201 song in like manner did not appeal to the skipper, though it did to us, and Mr. Hadow swung his chair round with the back towards the company, and rose and fell on the seat, as if his chair were a hunter and he was in the saddle. Presently Pengelly entered with a steaming punch-bowl, and then there was no discordant element in any of the company. The skipper sang with his rich but rough voice : " Come, all you old comrades, wherever you be ! With neighbours united in sweet harmony. Whilst the clear crystal fountain thro' England shall roll, O, give me the Punch Ladle—I'll fathom the bowl. Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast, Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest. We'll toss off our bumper, together will troll, O, give me the Punch Ladle—I'll fathom the bowl. From France cometh Brandy, Jamaica gives Rum, Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come, Of Beer and good Cider we'll also take toll, O, give me the Punch Ladle—I'll fathom the bowl. Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea, Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me ? We'll drink to their healths, and repose to each soul, O, give me the Punch Ladle—I'll fathom the bowl." The skipper showed some hesitation before that he produced the last verse, and only did so when he received an encouraging nod from my mother. " Our wives they must bluster as much as they please, Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease. To the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal, O, give me the Punch Ladle—I'll fathom the bowl." A great many years later I recovered the song and the delightful air from an old toper at Lydford. I had not heard it in the interim, and I published it in the Songs of the West. But when, after the death of my fellow collector, Mr. Sheppard, a new edition was called for and Mr. C. Sharp took charge of it, he cut out the song of the Punch Bowl, as being a drinking song and not a genuine
