8
Can’t help sniv’lling, somehow, when I see (illegible text) sad;
But howsomever, should I’ve luck to fall once more
Longside a Mounseer, homeward hound, he’ll pay the score;
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.
Huzza!—a gun!—the signal’s made;
All hands on hoard—the anchor’s weigh’d;
Lord! how the girls in scores are flying
Fore and aft, all sohhing, crying;
Thoughts of parting makes them all run roaring mad;
But honour bids her gallant sons to glory go,
So off again we scud to lick the saucy foe;
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.
