7
JACK'S THE LAD.
Our ship’s a-port, so here I be,
With heart as light as cork, d’ye see;
’Pon larboard quarter Poll is jigging,
Dress’d all in her Sunday rigging—
Wench and fiddle always make a sailor glad;
Old Nipperkin, the landlord, keeps the grog afloat,
Kindly is the liquor handed down each other throat;
For if ever sailor took delight in
Swigging, kissing, dancing, fighting,
Dam’me! I make bold to say that Jack’s the lad.
With my tol de rol, &c.
Cheerly, my lads, ye know Jack Spry,
So full of romps and rigs that I—
D’ye hear the merry fiddle going?
Sblood! it sets mo off a-toeing.
That’s he—Catgut, College Hornpipe, brisk old dad!
Now for a reel—Sir David Hunter Blair—that’s Scotch;
Or Langolee, or anything but French or Dutch;
For if ever fellow took delight in
Swigging, kissing, dancing, fighting,
Dam’me! I make bold to say that Jack’s the lad.
With my tol de rol, &c.
My locker’s rich—the devil’s mite!
Why, here’s a pretty rig!—Yes—I’m right;
An old friend, like a blubbering ninny
Look’d distress’d like—got my guinea.
