University of Virginia Library

Of a Master of a Vessel.

A Brawny Lump that scarce knows good from ill,
Fatted on Board like Hogs with Pease and Swill:
Affects a Hoarseness as a Vocal Grace,
Churlish his Carriage, and Austere his Face:
Lusty his Limbs, and Rusty is his Skin,
A Bear without, and a worse Beast within.
If Married sure a Cuckold, and if not,
A Generous Cully to each Wapping Slut:
At Sea an Emperour, at Land a Slave,
A Fool in Talk, but to his Owners Knave:
Ty'd, when on shore to a huge Silver Sword,
And struts about in Wapping like a Lord.
With Jilts in Musick House, he's pleas'd and glad,
When sober surly, and in liquor mad:
A Bulky Carcase, with a slender Soul,
But stout as Julius Cæsar o'er a Bowl:
In Company Pragmatical and Rude,
Humble to's Owners, to his Seamen Proud.
In Calms or Storms he seldom Prays but Swears,
Starving and Drowning are his only Fears,
And never thinks of Heaven beyond the Stars.
Mercator and his Compass are his Guides,
By them alone he thinks he safely Rides:
A Prosperous Gale he looks for as his due;
He thanks no God, Religion never knew;
And is no more a Christian than a Jew.
At Land, altho' an Idiot, when at Sea,
None must presume to be as wise as he:
Talk Reason, and your Argument's deny'd,
He swears you nothing know of Time nor Tide;
His Words are Laws, he is their Soveraign Lord,
An Aristotle's but an Ass on Board.
The Burgoo Novice, bred 'twixt Stem and Stern,
That knows to splice a Line, or spin Rope-Yarn;
Shall by King Tar-Arse more respected be,
Than an Erasmus, or the Learned he:
His Head's an Almanack, which Men may find
Fill'd up with Tides, the Weather and the Wind;
Suns Declination, Changes of the Moon,
And how to know in India when its Noon.
A Ship he takes to be the only School,
And really thinks a Land-Man is a Fool:
When warm'd with Punch, and his Mundungus-Weed,
He Praises Briny Beef, and Bisket Bread:
Contemns Land Dainties, and the Bed of Down,
And Swears a Ship's more pleasant than a Town:
So Prisoners long confin'd would fain prevail,
With Freemen, to believe their stinking Goal
Affords more satisfaction to the mind,
Than all the Pleasures they at large can find.
All that the Sea-Calf has on Shore to boast,
Is how he sav'd his Ship from being lost:
Which the Unthinking Dolt, thro' Insolence,
Ascribes to his own Art not Providence.
The most that to his Honour can be said,
Of a Tarpaulin Rabble he's the Head;
And Monarch of a Wooden World tis true,
But such a one as makes most Land-Men sp---w.
Let him Rule on: His Famish'd Slaves Command,
Dreading each Storm that Blows, each Rock & Sand;
Rather than such a King, I'll Subject be at Land.