as they gravely looked upon the dancers. At another were to be seen some American seamen, scrupulously neat in their attire, and with an air distinguée, from the superiority of their education, and all of them quiet and sober. The basket-women flitted about displaying, their stores, and invited every one to purchase fruit, and particularly hard-boiled eggs, which they had brought in at this hour, when those who dined at one might be expected to be hungry. Sailors’ wives were also there, and perhaps some who could not produce the marriage certificates; but as these were not asked for at the door, it was of no consequence. About the centre of the room, at two small tables joined together, were to be seen the party from the Yungfrau; some were drinking beer, some grog, and Jemmy Ducks was perched on the table, with his fiddle as usual held like a bass viol. He was known by those who frequented the house by the name of the Mannikin, and was a universal object of admiration and good-will. The quadrille was ended, and the music stopped playing.
“Come now,” said Coble, tossing off his glass, “spell oh!—let’s have a song while they take their breath. Jemmy, strike up.”
“Hurrah, for a song!” cries Jemmy. “Here goes.”
Jemmy then tuned one string of his fiddle, which was a little out, and accompanying his voice, sang as follows: all those who were present immediately keeping silence, for they were used to Jemmy’s melody.
’Twas on the twenty-fourth of June I sail’d away to sea,
I turn’d my pockets in the lap of Susan on my knee;
Says I, my dear, ’tis all I have, I wish that it was more.
It can’t be help’d, says Susan then, you know we’ve spent galore.
You know we’ve spent galore, my Bill,
And merry have been we,
Again you must your pockets fill,
For Susan on your knee.
“Chorus, my boys—!”
For Susan on my knee, my boys,
With Susan on my knee.
The gale came on in thunder, lads, in lightning, and in foam,
Before that we had sail’d away three hundred miles from home;
And on the Sunday morning, lads, the coast was on our lee,
Oh, then I thought of Portsmouth, and of Susan on my knee.
For howling winds and waves to boot,
With black rocks on the lee,
Did not so well my fancy suit,
As Susan on my knee.
Chorus.—With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee. Next morning we were cast away upon the Frenchman’s shore, We saved our lives, but not our all, for we could save no more; They march’d us to a prison, so we lost our liberty, I peep’d between the bars, and sigh’d for Susan on my knee. For bread so black, and wine so sour, And a sou a-day to me, Made me long ten times an hour, For Susan on my knee. Chorus.—For Susan on my knee, my boys, For Susan on my knee. One night we smash’d our jailer’s skull, and off our boat did steer, And in the offing were pick’d up by a jolly privateer; We sail’d in her the cruise, my boys, and prizes did take we, I’ll be at Portsmouth soon, thinks I, with Susan on my knee. We shared three hundred pounds a man, I made all sail with glee, Again I danced and toss’d my can, With Susan on my knee. Chorus—With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee.
“That’s prime, Jemmy. Now, my boys, all together,” cried Obadiah Coble.
Chorus.—Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; We are all here for mirth and glee, We are all here for jollity. Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; Put your hats on to keep your beads warm, A little more grog will do us no harm.
“Hurrah! Now, Bill Spurey, suppose you tip us a stave. But I say, Babette, you Dutch-built galliot, tell old Frank Slush to send us another dose of the stuff; and, d’ye hear, a short pipe for me, and a paper o’ baccy.”
The short, fat Babette, whose proportions all the exercise of waiting upon the customers could not reduce, knew quite enough English to require no further explanation.
“Come, Jemmy, my hearty, take your fingers off your fiddle, and hand in your pot,” continued Coble; “and then, if they are not going to dance, we’ll have another song. Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat. Here’s more ’baccy, Short.”
Short made no reply, but he shook out the ashes, and filled his pipe. The music did not strike up again, so Bill Spurey sang as follows:—
Says the parson one day, as I cursed a Jew,
Do you know, my lad, that we call it a sin!
I fear of you sailors there are but few,
St. Peter, to heaven, will ever let in.
Says I, Mr. Parson, to tell you my mind,
No sailors to knock were ever yet seen,
Those who travel by land may steer ’gainst wind,
But we shape a course for Fiddler’s Green.
For Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true,
When here they’ve done their duty,
The bowl of grog shall still renew
And pledge to love and beauty.
Says the parson, I hear you’ve married three wives,
Now do you not know that that is a sin?
You sailors, you lead such very bad lives,
St. Peter, to heaven, will ne’er let you in.
Parson, says I, in each port I’ve but one, And never had more, wherever I’ve been; Below I’m obliged to be chaste as a nun, But I’m promised a dozen at Fiddler’s Green. At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true, When here they’ve done their duty, The bowl of grog shall still renew, And pledge to love and beauty. Says the parson, says he, you’re drunk, my man, And do you not know that that is a sin? If you sailors will ever be swinging your can, To heaven you surely will never get in. (Hiccup.) Parson, you may as well be mum, ’Tis only on shore I’m this way seen; But oceans of punch, and rivers of rum, Await the sailor at Fiddler’s Green. At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true, When here they’ve done their duty, The bowl of grog shall still renew And pledge to love and beauty.
“Well reeled off, Billy,” cried Jemmy Ducks finishing with a flourish on his fiddle and a refrain of the air. “I don’t think we shall meet him and his dog at Fiddler’s Green—heh!”
“No,” replied Short, taking his pipe from his lip.
“No, no, Jemmy, a seaman true means one true in heart as well as in knowledge; but, like a blind fiddler, he’ll be led by his dog somewhere else.”
