“Come, the flowing bowl;
Fond hopes arise,
The girls we prize
Shall bless each soul;
The can, boys, bring,
We’ll dance and sing,
While billows roll.
“Now for the chorus again—
“Come, sling the flowing bowl, etcetera.
“Jacob, why don’t you join?” The chorus was given by the whole of us. The Dominie’s voice was even louder, though not quite so musical, as old Tom’s.
“Evoé!” cried the Dominie; “evoé! cantemus.
“Amo, amas—I loved a lass,
For she was tall and slender;
Amas, amat—she laid me flat,
Though of the feminine .
“Truly do I not forget the songs of my youth, and of my days: yet doth the spirit work upon me like the god in the Cumean sybil; and I shall soon prophecy that which shall come to pass.”
“So can I,” said Tom, giving me a nudge, and laughing.
“Do thine office of Ganymede, and fill up the pannikin; put not in too much of the element. Once more thy voice, good Dux.”
“Always ready, master,” cried Tom, who sang out again in praise of his favourite liquor—
“Smiling grog is the sailor’s best hope, his sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life’s cares cannot canker.
Though dangers around him,
Unite to confound him,
He braves them, and tips off his grog.
’Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
The sailor’s sheet anchor is grog.”
“Verily, thou art an Apollo—or, rather, referring to thy want of legs, half an Apollo—that is, a demi-god. (Cluck, cluck.) Sweet is thy lyre, friend Dux.”
“Fair words, master; I’m no liar,” cried Tom. “Clap a stopper on your tongue, or you’ll get into disgrace.”
“Ubi lapsus quid feci,” said the Dominie; “I of thy musical tongue; and, furthermore, I spoke alle-gori-cal-ly.”
“I know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as for telling a hell of a (something) lie, as you states, I say I never did,” rejoined old Tom, who was getting cross in his cups.
I now , as there was every appearance of a ; and in spite of young Tom, who wished, as he termed it, to kick up a shindy, prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for nearly five minutes. When this was ended, I again the Dominie not to drink any more, but to go to bed.
“Amice, Jacobe,” replied the Dominie; “the liquor hath mounted into thy brain, and thou wouldst thy master and thy preceptor. Betake thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. Verily, Jacob, thou art plenus Veteris Bacchi; or, in plain English, thou art drunk. Canst thou , Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou decline, Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou scan, Jacob? I fear not. , Jacob, methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy vision. Canst thou hear, Jacob? if so, I will give thee an against , with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. thou have it in Latin or in Greek?”
“O, damn your Greek and Latin!” cried old Tom; “keep that for to-morrow. Sing us a song, my old ; or shall I sing you one? Here goes—
“For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger’s drown’d,
We despise it to a man;
We sing a little—”
“Sing a little,” the Dominie.
“And laugh a little—”
“Laugh a little,” chorused young Tom.
“And work a little—”
“Work a little,” cried the Dominie.
“And swear a little—”
“Swear not a little,” echoed Tom.
“And a little—”
“Fiddle a little,” the Dominie.
“And foot it a little—”
“Foot it a little,” repeated Tom.
“And swig the flowing can,
And fiddle a little,
And foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can—”
roared old Tom, emptying his pannikin.
“And swig the flowing can—”
followed the Dominie, tossing off his.
“And swig the flowing can—”
cried young Tom turning up his pannikin empty.
“Hurrah! that’s what I calls glorious. Let’s have it over again, and then we’ll have another dose. Come, now, all together.” Again was the song repeated; and when they came to “foot it a little,” old Tom jumped on his , seizing hold of the Dominie, who immediately rose, and the three danced round and round for a minute or two, singing the song and chorus, till old Tom, who was very far gone, tripped against the coamings of the hatchway, pitching his head into the Dominie’s stomach, who fell , clinging to young Tom’s hand; so that they all rolled on the deck together—my preceptor the other two.
“Foot it rather too much that time, father,” said young Tom, getting up the first, and laughing. “Come, Jacob, let’s put father on his pins again; he can’t rise without a purchase.” With some difficulty, we succeeded. As soon as he was on his legs again, old Tom put a hand upon each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer—
“What though his timbers they are gone,
And he’s a slave to ,
No better sailor e’er was born
Than Tom, the jovial cripple.
“Thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. I suspect we knocked the wind out of him. Hollo, there, are you hard and fast?”
“The bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing,” quoth the Dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him.
“Senses going, do you say, master?” cried old Tom. “Don’t throw them overboard till we have made a finish. One more pannikin apiece, one more song, and then to bed. Tom, where’s the bottle?”
“Drink no more, sir, I beg; you’ll be ill to-morrow,” said I to the Dominie.
“Deprome quadrimum,” hiccuped the Dominie. “Carpe diem—quam minimum—creula postero.—Sing, friend Dux—Quem virum—sumes celebrare—music amicus.—Where’s my pattypan?—We are not Thracians—Natis in usum—laetitae scyphis pugnare—(hiccup)—Thracum est—therefore we—will not fight—but we will drink—recepto dulce mihi furere est amico—Jacob, thou art drunk—sing, friend Dux, or shall I sing?
“Propria quae maribus had a little dog,
Quae genus was his name—
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