THE SLAVE SHIP, A GALLEY YARN.


Come all you gallant sailors bold, that to the seas belong,
Oh listen unto me, my boys, while I recount my song;
'Tis concerning of an action that was fought the other day,
By the saucy little Primrose, on the coast of Africa.

One evening, while we the deep with gentle breezes plough,
A sail is seen from our mast-head, hard on the weather bow;
The gloom of night now coming on, of her we soon lose sight,
But down she bears, about five bells, as if prepared for fight.

Yet here she overreach'd herself, and prov'd she was mistaken,
Thinking by passing in the dark, that she could save her bacon;
For British tars don't lose a prize, by fault in looking out,
So we brought her to, with much ado, at eleven o'clock about.

All hands were call'd to quarters, our guns were clear'd away,
And every man within the ship, was anxious for the fray:
Our first lieutenant went on board, her hold to overhaul,
And found them training of their guns, to the boatswain's pipe and call.

To get near the main hatchway, our officer contrives,
But some ruffian-looking rascals surrounded him with knives;
For well they knew we peace must keep, unless that we could tell
That slaves were actually on board, detecting them by smell.

Striving this object to attain, he firm resistance met,