Wal! of all the cussed kinveyances,
Ef this isn't about the wust!
Nothin but rockin an rollin
An pitchin, from the verry fust —
The ingine a groanin, and the biler
Lyable enny minnit to bust.
Fust wun side, dum it, and then tuther!
Till Ime dogged ef I no wot to du —
Rock away, yu darnd old kradle!
I wos a baby wen I got inter you .
None on em seems to keer 6┬╝ cents
How bad a feller may feel,
Nur to talk to him — not even the saler
Foolin away his time on a wheel.
Thar's the capting! aint it provokin
To see that critter, all threw the trip,
Continooally drinkin and smokin,
Wen he orter be a mindin on his ship.
It's enuf to aggeravait a body,
And it aint manners, I think,
To set thar takin down his toddy,
And never askin nary parsinger to drink.
And the pusser, all he keers fur,
Is fur to hev a time with his pals.
I say, darn sech a pusser! jest heer him
Flurtin and carrin on among the gals!
And wen he's tired o' that, wot follers?
In his little cabbing thar he sets
Like a spyder, among berrils o' dollers —
Enuf to pay a feller's dets.
That's all they keers for parsingers,
Is, to git the two-hunder-
'N-fifty-dolers out of his pockit inter theirn,
And then he may go to thunder.
Ef a feller's driv to distraxion
In a blo, and axes wot to du,
He cant git no sort o' sattisfaxion
Out o' none on em — capting, mait, nur crew.
Wun day I clim inter their blamed riggin,
Jest to see wot thar wos, and in hopes
To kepe shet of em wun spell — but dog it!
I see z on em comin up the ropes.
Wun on em ketcht me and hilt hold on me,
While tother misrable cuss
Tide me up with a nasty, sticky cloze-line,
Smellin o' tar or sumthin wuss.
Thar they kep me — darn their picturs!
And nobody done nothin but larf,
Till I'd forkt out fur a bottle o' brandy —
It come to $ 2›.
That's the last $ s›
They'll ever git out o' me,
Fur Ile travvil in a durned top-waggin,
Afore Ile be ketcht agin to see.
Ef this isn't about the wust!
Nothin but rockin an rollin
An pitchin, from the verry fust —
The ingine a groanin, and the biler
Lyable enny minnit to bust.
Fust wun side, dum it, and then tuther!
Till Ime dogged ef I no wot to du —
Rock away, yu darnd old kradle!
I wos a baby wen I got inter you .
None on em seems to keer 6┬╝ cents
How bad a feller may feel,
Nur to talk to him — not even the saler
Foolin away his time on a wheel.
Thar's the capting! aint it provokin
To see that critter, all threw the trip,
Continooally drinkin and smokin,
Wen he orter be a mindin on his ship.
It's enuf to aggeravait a body,
And it aint manners, I think,
To set thar takin down his toddy,
And never askin nary parsinger to drink.
And the pusser, all he keers fur,
Is fur to hev a time with his pals.
I say, darn sech a pusser! jest heer him
Flurtin and carrin on among the gals!
And wen he's tired o' that, wot follers?
In his little cabbing thar he sets
Like a spyder, among berrils o' dollers —
Enuf to pay a feller's dets.
That's all they keers for parsingers,
Is, to git the two-hunder-
'N-fifty-dolers out of his pockit inter theirn,
And then he may go to thunder.
Ef a feller's driv to distraxion
In a blo, and axes wot to du,
He cant git no sort o' sattisfaxion
Out o' none on em — capting, mait, nur crew.
Wun day I clim inter their blamed riggin,
Jest to see wot thar wos, and in hopes
To kepe shet of em wun spell — but dog it!
I see z on em comin up the ropes.
Wun on em ketcht me and hilt hold on me,
While tother misrable cuss
Tide me up with a nasty, sticky cloze-line,
Smellin o' tar or sumthin wuss.
Thar they kep me — darn their picturs!
And nobody done nothin but larf,
Till I'd forkt out fur a bottle o' brandy —
It come to $ 2›.
That's the last $ s›
They'll ever git out o' me,
Fur Ile travvil in a durned top-waggin,
Afore Ile be ketcht agin to see.