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When she'd gang hame to be his dame,
To ha'e a rant, an' a' that.
To ha'e a rant, an' a' that.
The Old Commodore.
Ods'blood what a time for a seaman to sculk,
Under gingerbread hatches ashore,
What a damn'd bad job that this old batter'd hulk
Can't be rigg'd out to sea once more.
But the puppies as they pass,
Cocking up a squinting glass,
Thus runs down the old commodore:
That's the old commodore,
The old rum commodore,
The gouty old commodore—He!
Why the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd his hull about,
That he'll never more be fit for the sea.
Under gingerbread hatches ashore,
What a damn'd bad job that this old batter'd hulk
Can't be rigg'd out to sea once more.
But the puppies as they pass,
Cocking up a squinting glass,
Thus runs down the old commodore:
That's the old commodore,
The old rum commodore,
The gouty old commodore—He!
Why the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd his hull about,
That he'll never more be fit for the sea.
Here am I in distress, like a ship water-log'd,
Not a tow-rope at hand, nor an oar;
I'm left to my crew, and may I be flogg'd
But the doctor's a son of a whore.
While I'm swallowing his slops,
How nimble are his chops,
Thus quizzing the old commodore:
Not a tow-rope at hand, nor an oar;
I'm left to my crew, and may I be flogg'd
But the doctor's a son of a whore.
While I'm swallowing his slops,
How nimble are his chops,
Thus quizzing the old commodore:
