Jack Junk or a cruize on shore A Humorous Poem by the Author of the Sailor Boy [i.e. S. W. H. Ireland] |
 |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | CANTO III. |
| IV. |
 | Jack Junk or a cruize on shore |  |
51
CANTO III.
52
THE ARGUMENT.
A sailor's right to act as he pleases.—Junk, with girls and grog on board, makes way for Portsmouth.— Tom, the post boy, dead drunk, when Jack becomes steersman.—Chaise capsized at Hilsea, and all hands soused in the water.—Proceeding to Portsmouth on Shanks's mare.—Junk and Moll retire to snooze.— Bet Mahoney spell-bound.—Art of legerdemain exemplified. —Cruize to the Lord Howe, with gig and fun.—Jack meets his messmates and lasses, when all steer for Portsea.—Meet dock-yard mates.—A battle ensues, when sailors proving victorious, all hands make ready for a famous row.
53
“We sing a little, we laugh a little,
“And work a little, and swear a little,
“And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
“And swig the flowing can.”
Dibdin.
“And work a little, and swear a little,
“And fiddle a little, and foot it a little,
“And swig the flowing can.”
Dibdin.
Let Boreas blow, let floods arise,
And waft our war-ships to the skies;
Let battles rage, and cannons roar,
Jack Junk shall reap his joys on shore;
For such as hard their rhino earn,
Should spend it just as suits their turn.
The lubber, who ne'er sees a wave,
Nor knows what 'tis on board to slave;
Who reaps from parent all his wealth,
Ne'er risking precious life and health;
He may expend his golden store,
On native earth, who ne'er saw more.
Then let my sailor, at his will,
Enjoy his girls, his grub, and swill;
He better far deserves a spree
Than those unus'd to rubs at sea.
Smile at my messmates as you list,
To Briton's mill they bring the grist;
A cargo richer far than gold,
An ingot never bought or sold;
A talisman that guards our land,
And rears the shield with valour's hand;
Whose iron messengers dismay
The foes of Britain's beamy way;
Then live my Tars—'tis now or never—
To England Victory—for ever.
From village Junk renews the drive,
And swears to keep the game alive;
Tries what each tavern will afford,
'Till all hands get their grog on board;
When Buckland's Old George crowns the spree,
Rare garden—fam'd for gig and tea;
Here grog the host profusely spreads,
As if from fumes were free their heads;
They sing and hop it, waxing gay,
Then cry—“For Portsmouth let's away.”
The bill soon paid, and horses ready,
Our tar sings out—“All hands be steady;”
When Bet and Moll, grown somewhat hazy,
To chaise pursue a circuit mazy;
While Tom, who fain would sober seem,
Scarce knows which way to guide his team;
And proves, indeed, so swipy grown,
That mounting bar—his tick'lish throne—
Capsiz'd by grog, he sprawling lays,
And dead'ning Bacchus' will obeys;
Our Jack, more us'd to liquor's fume,
The whip of steersman dares assume;
In chaise the post boy safely stows,
To share with doxies sound repose;
While seated on the box in state,
All three are left to Jack and fate,
And under steersman so profound,
Lord send they may not run aground,
But if my pray'r be heard or no,
We soon shall learn, for off they go.
The helmsman, Junk, makes press of sail,
Each stitch of canvas meets the gale;
No compass guides him on his way,
For grog obscures of sense the ray;
Unmindful of the rudder—rein,
'Tis whip must waft him o'er the plain;
While heated nags exert their power,
Yet cannot go nine knots an hour.
Our tar pursues this hair brain course,
'Till steeds, unus'd to such rude force,
Forget restraint, and onward dash,
'Till Hilsea notes the dreadful crash;
Enfuriate grown, the palfreys there,
Like bullets from nine-pounders tear;
The doxies screech, the post-boy snores,
Then open slam the yielding doors;
While dauntless Jack, who hears the clatter,
Sings out—“Vy, vat the hell's the matter?”
Reply is prompt, for eve's fair daughters,
Jack, Tom, and chaise, are sous'd in waters;
While plunging steeds the danger show,
Thus threat'ning death in floods below.
But lucky chance on some will wait,
To snatch them from impending fate;
For drunken men possess a charm,
That saves 'em from the shafts of harm.
The tearing chaise, and women's cries,
Arrest each wond'ring passers eyes,
Alarm is giv'n, all rush amain,
To drag four souls from liquid plain,
Who haply compass mercy's call,
For safe, though drench'd, behold them all,
While ducking proves o'er grog the ruler,
For water cold's a famous cooler.
The nags no injury display,
Not so the chaise they bore away,
The sides stove in, the glasses shiver'd,
And hinder wheel of spokes deliver'd;
The pannels twain with scratches branded;
Pole, reins, and all the harness, stranded.
Junk, never prone to tears or fretting,
D---s the mischance, nor heeds a wetting;
Then cries—“By G*d, my hull there's wind in,
“I'm for the Battle now of Minden.”
Where Junk, his Moll, and Bet, straight hie,
Some brandy neat anon's the cry;
While Tom, held up with soul in soak,
Can neither stand, nor swig, nor joke,
With peepers bung'd, the straw he greets,
To snore out Bacchus' dead'ning sweets.
From Hilsea and the Minden's sign,
For Portsmouth Jack and girls incline;
The doxies, somewhat in the dumps,
Compell'd to pad it on their stumps.
Junk, heeding naught such crabbed faces,
Proceeds along with rolling paces;
Performing circles, left and right,
Prognostic certain, that the sight
Sees many ways, without much trouble,
Like Scotchmen, who, 'tis said, ken double.
Now Portsmouth gain'd, with girls in tow,
For room of Bet, in White Hart Row,
Our sailor steers, without delay,
That she may shift her drench'd array;
And eke our Moll, since uncle's clothes
Had there been left in snug repose.
With prog and grog, (those sound esteepers
Of human sense,) our seaman's peepers
Quite overcome, he wants a snooze,
Before he 'gins another booze;
So stow'd with Chantress, in Bet's bed,
Consigns to rest his addled head;
Where, let us now the curtain close,
And leave them to their fond repose;
As 'tis but just the muse should tell
Mahoney's thoughts, subdu'd by spell;
But if of genius bad or good,
Shall, 'ere 'tis long, be understood.
In Canto Second, if I'm right,
I said that Bet was keen of sight,
As how she was a cunning elf,
In things that appertain'd to self;
Now all folks know, as well as me,
Of fortune's lock to gain the key,
Two ways exist—the one fair dealing,
Whilst prudent folks call t'other stealing.
Now in what part dame Nature set
The germ of honesty in Bet,
The bard by no means can discover,
But shrewdly thinks she was a lover
Of pelf, obtained by hook or crook,
As straight shall manifest his book.
Our Junk and Moll, ere half an hour,
Had yielded both to Morpheus power,
For which kind chance Mahoney long
Expectant waited; when the song
From nasal organs 'gan resound,
As snores proclaimed the snooze profound.
Bet calculated not by Cocker,
Yet knew, full well, within which locker
Jack Junk had last his rhino stow'd,
So wish'd to search the said abode.
Anon to couch Mahoney crept,
Not where a Mars and Venus slept,
But Junk and Moll, who peaceful snor'd,
More worthy far to be ador'd;
For Heathen Gods, friend, by the bye,
Are merely fudge, and all my eye:
Whereas, to speak plain fact between us,
Tho' Moll cou'd not be dubb'd a Venus,
Nor honest Junk a god-like Mars,
She boasted bulk, while brave Junk's scars
Proclaim'd him no mere king of story,
But living Jack, the son of glory,
And one man quick, fat Falstaff said,
Outweigh'd a host of hero's dead.
With flipper glib as Lucy Lockit,
Bet dives forthwith in Jack Junk's pocket;
Draws instant forth, with skill divine O,
The remnant of our seaman's rhino;
And counting flimsies still remaining,
One half determines on retaining,
Of all Mahoney's acts the oddest,
Thus proving Bet, in pilf'ring, modest.
Like lightning t'other half replac'd
In locker, quickly is effac'd
All thought of plunder, for you know,
Junk honest—thinks all others so;
Thus much for Bet, judge as you will,
'Tis plain she had some nouse and skill,
As such she gen'ral ranks in chief,
The most consummate doxy thief
As great as mistress, that evinces
Art to inveigle mighty princes;
For what but men are princes still,
The slaves of subtle woman's will.
Now for our tar, who having snor'd
For two full hours, is then restor'd
From semblance of the dead to life,
With Moll his ammunition wife.
The girls now rigg'd and fit for fun,
Junk, for the Lord Howe, takes the run,
There orders grub and smoking flip,
To cheer his hull and soak his lip;
And singing loud with fancy pieces,
The elbow scraper noise encreases.
Then 'gins the sprightly dance again,
And all hands foot it to the strain;
While thus engaged in jovial cheer,
The messmates of our tar appear;
Each leading by the flipper in,
His doxy muzz'd with flip and gin;
The fun increases, all in motion,
Swig thirstful of the welcome potion;
'Till Junk, the foremost of our throng,
Who, sailor like, ne'er tarries long
To taste one pleasure, but must be,
At all times, captain of a spree,
Sings out—“Come, messmates, let's make sail,
“We've here no lubbers to turn tail,
“I'm for a row;” when one and all
Give cheek, and for a shindy bawl.
The bill soon settled with the host,
From Lord Howe reeling off they post;
The signal Portsea, whither bent,
Who dares impede their mind's intent;
Our sailors thus, in jovial strain,
Cast anchor in Rosemary Lane;
Enjoy all fun the spot affords,
Then make fresh sail as drunk as lords;
And gaining fam'd Southampton Row,
Command anew the liquors flow;
Triumphant reign girls, fiddles, grub,
And brim full cans of famous bub.
Now Portsea pastimes growing stale,
Junk cries—“A hoy! for Point make sail;”
The anchor weigh'd, they roaring reel,
Scarce knowing how to keep the keel;
And thus on cruize proceeding hot,
It proved of dock yard mates the lot,
To come athwart their tackle blind,
Jack sings out—“D*me, haul your wind;
“Come messmates all, my flipper hankers,
“To capsize lubberly dock shankers.”
When latter finding tars on shore
Have got with grog full half seas o'er,
Give cheek, and straight, with taunting song,
Demand to what ship they belong?
Junk, without parley, quick replies,
“The saucy Nonsuch, d*m your eyes,
“A frigate built dock dogs to check,
“With never a bottom and no deck.”
He scarce had spoke when tars all shout,
“A flower; a daisy;—spoony lout.”
At 'em, roars Junk, cheek full of guzzle,
And deals forth quick a lushing muzzle;
When battle royal straight begins,
And tars make good use of their fins;
With broken snob one 'gins to whelp,
Capsized another roars for help;
A third gives in with peepers bows'd,
And soon the dock yard crew is rous'd;
In all directions off they broom,
Thus paid for having dared presume.
When loud each sailor gives the cheer,
And tackling flipper of his dear,
For Point makes sail, with joy half crazy,
At having threshed a dock yard daisy.
And waft our war-ships to the skies;
Let battles rage, and cannons roar,
Jack Junk shall reap his joys on shore;
For such as hard their rhino earn,
Should spend it just as suits their turn.
The lubber, who ne'er sees a wave,
Nor knows what 'tis on board to slave;
54
Ne'er risking precious life and health;
He may expend his golden store,
On native earth, who ne'er saw more.
Then let my sailor, at his will,
Enjoy his girls, his grub, and swill;
He better far deserves a spree
Than those unus'd to rubs at sea.
Smile at my messmates as you list,
To Briton's mill they bring the grist;
A cargo richer far than gold,
An ingot never bought or sold;
A talisman that guards our land,
And rears the shield with valour's hand;
Whose iron messengers dismay
The foes of Britain's beamy way;
Then live my Tars—'tis now or never—
To England Victory—for ever.
55
And swears to keep the game alive;
Tries what each tavern will afford,
'Till all hands get their grog on board;
When Buckland's Old George crowns the spree,
Rare garden—fam'd for gig and tea;
Here grog the host profusely spreads,
As if from fumes were free their heads;
They sing and hop it, waxing gay,
Then cry—“For Portsmouth let's away.”
The bill soon paid, and horses ready,
Our tar sings out—“All hands be steady;”
When Bet and Moll, grown somewhat hazy,
To chaise pursue a circuit mazy;
While Tom, who fain would sober seem,
Scarce knows which way to guide his team;
And proves, indeed, so swipy grown,
That mounting bar—his tick'lish throne—
56
And dead'ning Bacchus' will obeys;
Our Jack, more us'd to liquor's fume,
The whip of steersman dares assume;
In chaise the post boy safely stows,
To share with doxies sound repose;
While seated on the box in state,
All three are left to Jack and fate,
And under steersman so profound,
Lord send they may not run aground,
But if my pray'r be heard or no,
We soon shall learn, for off they go.
The helmsman, Junk, makes press of sail,
Each stitch of canvas meets the gale;
No compass guides him on his way,
For grog obscures of sense the ray;
Unmindful of the rudder—rein,
'Tis whip must waft him o'er the plain;
57
Yet cannot go nine knots an hour.
Our tar pursues this hair brain course,
'Till steeds, unus'd to such rude force,
Forget restraint, and onward dash,
'Till Hilsea notes the dreadful crash;
Enfuriate grown, the palfreys there,
Like bullets from nine-pounders tear;
The doxies screech, the post-boy snores,
Then open slam the yielding doors;
While dauntless Jack, who hears the clatter,
Sings out—“Vy, vat the hell's the matter?”
Reply is prompt, for eve's fair daughters,
Jack, Tom, and chaise, are sous'd in waters;
While plunging steeds the danger show,
Thus threat'ning death in floods below.
But lucky chance on some will wait,
To snatch them from impending fate;
58
That saves 'em from the shafts of harm.
The tearing chaise, and women's cries,
Arrest each wond'ring passers eyes,
Alarm is giv'n, all rush amain,
To drag four souls from liquid plain,
Who haply compass mercy's call,
For safe, though drench'd, behold them all,
While ducking proves o'er grog the ruler,
For water cold's a famous cooler.
The nags no injury display,
Not so the chaise they bore away,
The sides stove in, the glasses shiver'd,
And hinder wheel of spokes deliver'd;
The pannels twain with scratches branded;
Pole, reins, and all the harness, stranded.
Junk, never prone to tears or fretting,
D---s the mischance, nor heeds a wetting;
59
“I'm for the Battle now of Minden.”
Where Junk, his Moll, and Bet, straight hie,
Some brandy neat anon's the cry;
While Tom, held up with soul in soak,
Can neither stand, nor swig, nor joke,
With peepers bung'd, the straw he greets,
To snore out Bacchus' dead'ning sweets.
From Hilsea and the Minden's sign,
For Portsmouth Jack and girls incline;
The doxies, somewhat in the dumps,
Compell'd to pad it on their stumps.
Junk, heeding naught such crabbed faces,
Proceeds along with rolling paces;
Performing circles, left and right,
Prognostic certain, that the sight
Sees many ways, without much trouble,
Like Scotchmen, who, 'tis said, ken double.
60
For room of Bet, in White Hart Row,
Our sailor steers, without delay,
That she may shift her drench'd array;
And eke our Moll, since uncle's clothes
Had there been left in snug repose.
With prog and grog, (those sound esteepers
Of human sense,) our seaman's peepers
Quite overcome, he wants a snooze,
Before he 'gins another booze;
So stow'd with Chantress, in Bet's bed,
Consigns to rest his addled head;
Where, let us now the curtain close,
And leave them to their fond repose;
As 'tis but just the muse should tell
Mahoney's thoughts, subdu'd by spell;
But if of genius bad or good,
Shall, 'ere 'tis long, be understood.
61
I said that Bet was keen of sight,
As how she was a cunning elf,
In things that appertain'd to self;
Now all folks know, as well as me,
Of fortune's lock to gain the key,
Two ways exist—the one fair dealing,
Whilst prudent folks call t'other stealing.
Now in what part dame Nature set
The germ of honesty in Bet,
The bard by no means can discover,
But shrewdly thinks she was a lover
Of pelf, obtained by hook or crook,
As straight shall manifest his book.
Our Junk and Moll, ere half an hour,
Had yielded both to Morpheus power,
For which kind chance Mahoney long
Expectant waited; when the song
62
As snores proclaimed the snooze profound.
Bet calculated not by Cocker,
Yet knew, full well, within which locker
Jack Junk had last his rhino stow'd,
So wish'd to search the said abode.
Anon to couch Mahoney crept,
Not where a Mars and Venus slept,
But Junk and Moll, who peaceful snor'd,
More worthy far to be ador'd;
For Heathen Gods, friend, by the bye,
Are merely fudge, and all my eye:
Whereas, to speak plain fact between us,
Tho' Moll cou'd not be dubb'd a Venus,
Nor honest Junk a god-like Mars,
She boasted bulk, while brave Junk's scars
Proclaim'd him no mere king of story,
But living Jack, the son of glory,
63
Outweigh'd a host of hero's dead.
With flipper glib as Lucy Lockit,
Bet dives forthwith in Jack Junk's pocket;
Draws instant forth, with skill divine O,
The remnant of our seaman's rhino;
And counting flimsies still remaining,
One half determines on retaining,
Of all Mahoney's acts the oddest,
Thus proving Bet, in pilf'ring, modest.
Like lightning t'other half replac'd
In locker, quickly is effac'd
All thought of plunder, for you know,
Junk honest—thinks all others so;
Thus much for Bet, judge as you will,
'Tis plain she had some nouse and skill,
As such she gen'ral ranks in chief,
The most consummate doxy thief
64
Art to inveigle mighty princes;
For what but men are princes still,
The slaves of subtle woman's will.
Now for our tar, who having snor'd
For two full hours, is then restor'd
From semblance of the dead to life,
With Moll his ammunition wife.
The girls now rigg'd and fit for fun,
Junk, for the Lord Howe, takes the run,
There orders grub and smoking flip,
To cheer his hull and soak his lip;
And singing loud with fancy pieces,
The elbow scraper noise encreases.
Then 'gins the sprightly dance again,
And all hands foot it to the strain;
While thus engaged in jovial cheer,
The messmates of our tar appear;
65
His doxy muzz'd with flip and gin;
The fun increases, all in motion,
Swig thirstful of the welcome potion;
'Till Junk, the foremost of our throng,
Who, sailor like, ne'er tarries long
To taste one pleasure, but must be,
At all times, captain of a spree,
Sings out—“Come, messmates, let's make sail,
“We've here no lubbers to turn tail,
“I'm for a row;” when one and all
Give cheek, and for a shindy bawl.
The bill soon settled with the host,
From Lord Howe reeling off they post;
The signal Portsea, whither bent,
Who dares impede their mind's intent;
Our sailors thus, in jovial strain,
Cast anchor in Rosemary Lane;
66
Then make fresh sail as drunk as lords;
And gaining fam'd Southampton Row,
Command anew the liquors flow;
Triumphant reign girls, fiddles, grub,
And brim full cans of famous bub.
Now Portsea pastimes growing stale,
Junk cries—“A hoy! for Point make sail;”
The anchor weigh'd, they roaring reel,
Scarce knowing how to keep the keel;
And thus on cruize proceeding hot,
It proved of dock yard mates the lot,
To come athwart their tackle blind,
Jack sings out—“D*me, haul your wind;
“Come messmates all, my flipper hankers,
“To capsize lubberly dock shankers.”
When latter finding tars on shore
Have got with grog full half seas o'er,
67
Demand to what ship they belong?
Junk, without parley, quick replies,
“The saucy Nonsuch, d*m your eyes,
“A frigate built dock dogs to check,
“With never a bottom and no deck.”
He scarce had spoke when tars all shout,
“A flower; a daisy;—spoony lout.”
At 'em, roars Junk, cheek full of guzzle,
And deals forth quick a lushing muzzle;
When battle royal straight begins,
And tars make good use of their fins;
With broken snob one 'gins to whelp,
Capsized another roars for help;
A third gives in with peepers bows'd,
And soon the dock yard crew is rous'd;
In all directions off they broom,
Thus paid for having dared presume.
68
And tackling flipper of his dear,
For Point makes sail, with joy half crazy,
At having threshed a dock yard daisy.
So much for messmates and our Junk,
All bidding fair to get dead drunk,
This row encreasing still their joys,
Aloud they curse along shore boys;
While Jack, whose pluck no fate can bow,
Determines on a furious row,
To which I'll lead him, friend, 'ere long,
And thus to anchor bring my song.
All bidding fair to get dead drunk,
This row encreasing still their joys,
Aloud they curse along shore boys;
While Jack, whose pluck no fate can bow,
Determines on a furious row,
To which I'll lead him, friend, 'ere long,
And thus to anchor bring my song.
| Jack Junk or a cruize on shore | |