"Do, young gentleman!--toss a copper to poor little Poll. Ah! bless you,
master!--may you never want a shot in your locker. Thank the gentleman,
Polly--

"The night both drear and dark,
Our poor desarted bark,
There she lay--(lay quiet, Poll!)

"There she lay--Noble lady in the window, look with pity on poor Jack,
and his little Polly--till next day,
In the Bay of Biscay O."

"Pray, kind lady, help the poor shipwrecked sailor--cast away on his
voyage to the West Ingees, in a dreadful storm. Sixteen hands on us took
to the long-boat, my lady, and was thrown on a desart island, three
thousand miles from any land; which island was unfortunately manned by
Cannibals, who roast and eat every blessed one of us, except the cook's
black boy; and him they potted, my lady, and I'm bless'd but they'd have
potted me, too, if I hadn't sung out to them savages, in this 'ere sort of
way, my lady--

"Come all you jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While British valour I unfold--
Huzza! for the Arethusa!
She was a frigate stout and brave
As ever stemm'd the dashing wave--

"Lord love your honour, and throw the poor sailor who has fought and bled