your buntlines, look alive!" "Belay your port maintopsail sheet; clap a watch tackle on the starboard sheet and rouse her home." "Maintop there, lay down on the main-yard and light the foot of that sail over the stay." "That 's well, belay starboard." "Well the mizzentopsail sheets, belay." "Now then, my bullies, lead out your topsail halliards fore and aft and masthead her." "Aye, aye, sir." By this time the mate has put some ginger into the crew and longshoremen, and they walk away with the three topsail halliards:
"Away, way, way, yar.
We'll kill Paddy Doyle for his boots."
"Now then, long pulls, my sons." "Here, you chantyman, haul off your boots, jump on that maindeck capstan and strike a light; the best in your locker." "Aye, aye, sir." And the three topsailyards go aloft with a ringing chanty that can be heard up in Beaver Street:
"Then up aloft that yard must go,
Whiskey for my Johnny.
Oh, whiskey is the life of man,
Whiskey, Johnny.
I thought I heard the old man say,
Whiskey for my Johnny.
We are bound away this very day,
Whiskey, Johnny.
A dollar a day is a white man's pay,
