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.