Oh, Johnny Marine he shoulders arms
And he won't get out of your way,
And he wears white gloves at the cabin door
And he thinks he's hell-to-pay.
He may talk back to Forecs'le Jack,
But he's meek as ever you found
If you come along with a stripe and a bird
And happen to be brass-bound.
I'm a-goin' to be brass-bound, . . . .
There's times when I think I've had enough,
My cheek 'gainst a bag o' coal,
All sweat and dust, full a half inch crust,
And a curse laid on my soul.
There's kinds o' work you'd like to shirk—
Dead sure to come around,
And the way I can tell you to miss them tricks
Is to get yourself brass-bound.
I'm a-goin' to be brass-bound, . . . .
BILL SWEENY OF THE BLACK GANG.
There are more non-combatants on board a modern war vessel than fighting men—that is, they are rated non-combatants, but their duties are none the less dangerous and necessary. The "Black Gang" is the fire-room force—firemen, oilers, water-tenders, coal-passers, and so on. But Jack includes them all under one general head; although on the days when "All hands coal ship" is the order, he is as black as any of them, and grumbles as only a sailorman can. However, we love him still; and at this writing many eyes are on him, and many anxious hearts have followed him out to sea.
Ther's a feller in the Black Gang
Aboard the "Ampertrite";
Bill Sweeny is the feller's name,
You can bet that Bill's all right.
He's seen a heap o' the world, has Bill,
He's fired all there is to fire,
From a lime-juicer tramp
To a brand new Cramp
With a stack like Trinity spire.
Bill Sweeny is a feller
With stars agin his name;
But Bill he gets his liberty
When any gets the same.
He stands right in with them all, does Bill,
And they lets him go ashore,
Though he'd smuggled a swig
To a lad in the brig
And he's sure to smuggle in more.
Bill Sweeny is a feller
You won't back on his looks,
He's pitted up with small-pox
And he ain't much read in books;
