Poor Jack

Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,

   'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;

A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me,

   And it an't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack smooth should smite,

   And shiver each spliter of wood,

Clear the deck, stow the yards and house every thing tight,

   And under reefed foressail we'll scud:

Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft,

   To be taken for trifles aback;

For they say there's a providence sits up aloft,

To keep watch for he life of poor Jack!

I heard our good chaplain palaver one day

   About souls, heaven, mercy, and such;

And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay;

   Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch;

For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,

   Without orders that come down below;

And a many fine things that proved clearly to me

   That providence takes us in tow:

For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft

   Take the topsais of sailors aback,

There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

I said to our Poll -- for, d'ye see, she would cry --

   When last we weighed anchor for sea,

What argufies snivelling and piping your eye?

   Why, what a damned fool you must be!

Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all,

   Both for seamen and lubbers ashore?

And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll,

   You never will hear of me more.

What then? All''s a hazard: come, don't be so soft:

   Perhaps I may laughing come back;

For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,

   To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch

   All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world, not offering to flinch

   From the moment the anchor's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides and ends,

   Nought's a trouble from duty that springs,

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

   And as for my life, 'tis the king's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft,

   As for grief to be taken aback,

For the same little cherub that sits up aloft

   Will look out a good berth for poor Jack!

Charles Dibdin