THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL."
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair.
Till I really felt afraid;
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig,
And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship _Nancy Bell_
That we sailed to the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
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