The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet,
For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet.

But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began:--
"We have heard a tale of a--foreign sail, but he is a merchantman."
The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon:--
"'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!"
By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air:--
"We have sold our spars to the merchantman--we know that his price is fair."
The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm:--
"They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm."
The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad,
The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord.

Masthead--masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft;
The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed:--
"It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all--we'll out to the seas again--
Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain.

"It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the unbought
brine--
We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line:
Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer,
Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer;
Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty,
Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea.

"Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam--we stand on the outward tack,
We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade--the bezant is hard, ay, and
black.