One very rough day on the Pride of the Fray
In the scuppers a poor little cabin-boy lay,
When the Bosun drew nigh with wrath in his eye
And gave him a kick to remember him by,
As he cried with a sneer: What good are you here?
Go home to your mammy, my bold buccaneer.
Now the Captain beheld, and his pity upwelled:
With a plug in the peeper the Bosun he felled.
With humility grand he extended his hand
And helped the poor lad, who was weeping, to stand,
As he cried: Have no fear; Im the manager here.
Take heart, and youll yet be a bold buccaneer.
But how he did flare when the lad then and there
Doffed his cap and shook down a gold banner of hair.
Though his movements were shy, hed a laugh in his eye,
And he sank on the Captains broad breast with a sigh,
As he cried: Is it queer that Ive followed you here?
Im your sweetheart from Bristol, my bold buccaneer.
On an isle in the west, by the breezes caressed,
The bold buccaneer has a warm little nest,
And he sits there in state amid pieces of eight
And tackles his rum with a manner elate,
As he cries: O my dear little cabin-boy, here
Is a toast to the babe of the bold buccaneer!
