?V?L SO?OS. 159' THE FORECASTLE SAILOR. T?= wind blew a blast from the northward, When we steered from the Cape of Good Hope, The sky looked quite pitchy and wayward, And the sea o'er our weather bow broke. The boatswain piped all hands to bail her, And I came down the back stay so glib; For ! am a forecastle sailor, You may see by the cut of my jib. Start my timbers, cried ?Ted Junk of Dover, Plump to me, as I landed on deck, With us it will scon be all over, For the Guardian must quick go to wreck; Well, well, we sha'n't live to bewail her, Cried l, and I patted his rib; ,Come--work like a forecastle sailor, If I don't, the gale sh/ver my jib. We were running at nine knots an hour: When 'bout two leagues to leeward we spied, An island of ice like ?t tower. And on it our ship quickly ?nied; But now 'twas no '?se for to bail her, The water gained on her so glib; lie each like a true hearted sailor, . Waited for to shiver his jib. Some took to the boat, do you mind me, While some on the vessel's deck stood, Cried I, may old Davy Jones i?nd me, If I sail from my captain so good. l?ow Providsnce helped us to bail her, And we. managed to patch up her rib; 39afe arrived is each true hearted sailor, To rig up his weather heat jib.
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