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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| IV. | CANTO IV. |
 | Jack Junk or a cruize on shore |  |
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CANTO IV.
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THE ARGUMENT.
Grog the sailor's helmsman.—Jack a king on shore.— Hop at the Naked Boy.—Row commences; windows, bottles, glasses, and all capsized.—Landlord calls in constables, desperate conflict ensues, and guardians of the night repulsed.—Junk sings out a general broadside, when a strong cudgel club assembled, tars are overpowered, and conveyed to the guard house.—A new row and battle royal, when a squadron arriving, Jack and his messmates escape from limbo.—The party steer for Sally Port, and there again get grog on board.—Council of constables, and determination thereupon.—Junk, eager to treat his friends, calls for another can.—Reckoning demanded, but lockers empty on all sides.—Jack sets sail for the needful.—Knocks up Moses Mordecai, and demands prize money.—The son of Israel tips him the go-bye. —The Jew receives a drubbing.—Confesses the fairness of his dealing.—Constables arrive.—Junk fights to the last, when, quite exhausted, he is led to the guard house.—Meets his messmates, and then content, all hands forget past scenes in renovating sleep.
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“Smiling grog is the Sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor,
“His compass, his cable, his log,
“That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker,
“Though dangers around him,
“Unite to confound him,
“He braves them, and tips off his grog.
“'Tis grog, only grog,
“Is his rudder, his compass, his log,
“The Sailor's sheet anchor is grog.”
Dibdin.
“His compass, his cable, his log,
“That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker,
“Though dangers around him,
“Unite to confound him,
“He braves them, and tips off his grog.
“'Tis grog, only grog,
“Is his rudder, his compass, his log,
“The Sailor's sheet anchor is grog.”
Dibdin.
Sound, sound my lyre, anew Jack runs
His boistrous race, and fires great guns;
The shindy now attains its height,
And Junk's alive to fun or fight;
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Fighting's to Jack the same as fun;
His mind on frenzy somewhat borders
For row, thus under sailing orders;
While ev'ry messmate, mad as he,
Sings out for pleasures of a spree.
Steer'd to this pitch by helmsman grog,
His spirit needs no lash to flog;
No spur, incitement keen to rouse,
'Fore nothing mortal seaman bows;
I mean on shore, where Junk's a king,
On board 'tis quite another thing;
For sailors know that victory
Attends on duty when at sea;
And therefore only take command
When high and dry upon the land.
But now to wind up closing strain,
I'll rig out straight my muse again;
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And banish thoughts of wounds and scars,
For he that pours on sorrow balm,
Deserves of fame the verdant palm;
So messmates, on this plea depending,
May your applause prove my befriending.
With tars and doxies full of joy,
Junk gains the famous Naked Boy;
Who, having no fig leaf or sash on,
By scroll informs you—”If the fashion
“To him was known, he cloath'd wou'd be,
“Nor thus show forth in nudity.”
In Prospect Row once more is cast
Junk's anchor, and his hull made fast;
Anew the theme is here repeated,
Tars must have grog, and girls be treated;
Junk, Moll, and Bet, well know the shop,
The cry, once more—“A hop! a hop!”
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Tune fiddles up, with senses foggy;
In fine, do any thing but play,
Riot the order of the day;
I shou'd say night—but slipp'd my cable—
Four bells, you know, bring too with sable;
Now reigns around confusion dire,
Junk, tars, and doxies, all on fire;
No longer Jack remembers lass,
No longer heeds the brimfull glass;
Life's liquor spilt, in streamlet glides,
And flows adown the chest in tides.
Each tongue sounds forth, like cannon's roar,
“A spree!” Junk cries—when at the door
Awaits with bill, the landlord cunning,
Alive to every art and funning.
“Avast!” says Jack, and takes his scroll,
Who cannot read, yet d---s his soul;
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That half the bill is but a take in,
And, rather than be so outdone,
He'll give him lip for cheating fun;
From off his pins capsize him straight,
And with clos'd dead lights seal his fate.
Junk scarce had spoke, when with disdain
Of windows, tars smash ev'ry pane;
Pell mell the bottles fly and glasses,
While screaming run the fancy lasses,
Like storm, when hurricanes rude blow,
They shiver all, and lay it low,
The room, 'ere long, a gen'ral wreck,
And splinters only strew the deck;
While thus engag'd, the host outright
Sends for the guardians of the night;
When constables appear, 'ere long,
To check this Bacchanalian throng.
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Demands, in thunder's tone—the box;
The tars, tongs, shovel, poker wield,
From chains their freedom to enshield;
While Junk, with massive leg of table,
By main-mast swears to fight while able;
The row ensues, a direful tustle,
Hell seems to lord it o'er the bustle;
'Till tars, with leader Jack, make broom
These lords of night, and clear the room;
Victorious now, with voices stout,
They rend the air with boist'rous shout;
While Junk, true son of Britain's Navy,
Who ne'er yet flinch'd at thought of Davy,
Exclaims—“In spite of wind and tide,
“Vele give these lubbers a broadside!”
Thus having said, from scenes of fray,
With messmates Jack, for door makes way;
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Is rang'd a mighty cudgel club.
Bold Junk, whose heart as oak was stout,
Ne'er heeding the o'erwhelming route,
The table's leg wav'd thrice on high,
“A broadside, boys!” the dauntless cry;
The battle rages, weapons meet,
And direful is the conflict's heat;
But numbers valour must subdue,
Thus four to one—our groggy crew
Cut up—surrenders to the foe,
Each rak'd with many a galling blow;
Their hats stove in, and jackets torn,
Like sails in ribbons, stream forlorn,
And thus accouter'd, each is led
To guard-house, there to rest his head.
Arriv'd at this portentous spot,
Junk thinks disdainful on his lot;
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The constables anon demand.
With dire contempt Junk's mind then fed,
And cheeks with wrath quick kindling red,
He cries—“Avast! 'ere bludgeon yield,
“I'll die, capsiz'd upon the field!”
These words like lightning swiftly fly,
“D*me v'ell keep our arms or die.”
“Huzza!” sings Junk, while every tongue
With loudest cheers the vaccuum rung.
The guards of night anon prepare,
In numbers confident, to tear
From ev'ry grasp the weapon dire;
But, when a seaman's soul's on fire,
To threaten's easier than to act,
Since tars are devils at the fact.
The dreadful fray begins once more,
When summoned by the loud uproar,
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The cause of this tremendous spree;
And ent'ring guard house forthwith view,
This conflict of th'unequal crew.
One messmate never needs a spur
To make his blood impetuous stir.
“Here's, bless my eyes, a pretty game,
“Vy four to vone's a burning shame,”
Sings out the foremost of this crew,
When ev'ry flipper straight brings too.
No sooner Jack beholds outright,
This friendly squadron join the fight,
Than fiercer still he wages battle,
And levels constables like cattle;
Who, soon subdued, their staffs throw by,
And lustily for quarters cry.
Junk viewing now the coast quite clear,
And all escaped night's lodging drear,
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Resolved his friends shall take a spell;
And rescu'd thus, to veering gale,
For land of chance then spreads the sail,
Forgetting past and present too,
Since naught but future meets his view.
Our tar and messmates, with escort,
Anon bear down for Sally Port,
And steering to first sign in view,
The grog is brought for friendly crew;
Their lips in turn, the can salute,
Nor is there one continues mute.
Junk foremost, with a hearty d*m,
Swears lubbers fighting's but a flam,
That constables disturb all joys,
A race of mere loplolly boys;
In short, to hell consigns the race,
Imps made for such a broiling place.
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The row preceeding—deep discuss;
Their ammunition wives had fled,
Not liking much a flinty bed,
Whereto they all consign'd had been,
Could constables their jibs have seen;
But 'fore the night watch—dire confounders,
Girls fly like bullets from nine pounders;
Meanwhile the constables sore smarting
From blows received, ere tars departing,
Their minds for signal vengence burn,
Resolv'd to conquer in their turn;
To compass which, war's council sits,
Where argufy these little wits,
And to this bearing come at length,
That finding in our tars such strength,
One man will bravely combat four,
These heroes needs must summons more;
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Six men to one, for warfare rig,
And with such reinforcement stout,
For tars they 'gin to search about;
As two bells sound how minutes run,
Of matin hour, thus nothing—One!
While constables these plans adopt,
To get our hearty sailors shopp'd;
Seamen who profit by the time,
With flowing cans their courage prime,
And for the row desirous still
Drain all the grog—then call for bill,
The reck'ning comes, Junk vows his friends
Shall from his locker share amends,
Whilst messmates of our tar declare,
That having had an equal share
Of swig and pleasure with the four
That rescu'd them from guard-house door,
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Nor will a man be ta'en aback;
“Vell, be it so, says Junk anon,
“So each agrees ere ve be gone,
“The parting can of grog to take,
“For sweethearts and acquaintance sake;”
All hands content—anew the board
Anon with flowing can is stor'd;
The cry is now—toast, song, and gig,
While lips still thirsting, copious swig,
'Till jolly souls, by Bacchus pinn'd,
Most d*mn*bly get in the wind.
So ev'ry one that mind carouses,
Must damage pay at public houses,
As all men know, who e'er have been
Awhile the inmates of an inn.
Of payment now the hour arrives,
In locker Junk his flipper drives,
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The latter spent—the former vapour;
In fine, of fifty flimsies 'reft,
Jack only finds one six-pence left.
Junk's messmates then the lockers search,
But rhino leaves them in the lurch;
Their duds combin'd gall feelings collar,
Not making up one wretched dollar,
Wherewith they have a bill to pay,
That Five Pounds scarcely would defray.
A minute's silence now ensues,
'Till Junk, at all times, fit for cruize
“Vows, d---n his eyes, he'll do the thing,
“And pay the reck'ning like a king;”
Swearing that lockers he'll capsize
Of agent, who for many a prize;
The precious rhino still retains,
By fighting won, on Neptune's plains.
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Which saves him from a birth on floor,
And fraught with business, leaving friends,
Headlong, ne'er heeding stairs, descends,
Then bolts from passage to the street,
His purpose eager to complete;
Our sailor Junk's no lubber sot,
For though his grog on board is got,
He still while tacking justly steers,
And from lee shore his hull safe clears;
His compass usage, can support
Poor ship-wrecked sense, and make the port.
In plight like this Jack's anchor cast,
He sings at agent's door—“Stand fast!”
Then knocker seizing, raps amain,
To break of Morpheus spell the chain;
Aloft the op'ning window creaks,
When lo! a voice enquiring speaks;
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“Jack vants you, Moses Mordecai;”
“Vants me,” “aye you,” Jack threat'ning roars,
“And d*mme open quick your doors,
“Or, bless my eyes, I'll stave 'em in,
“And rouse you with a seaman's fin.”
The son of Israel cries—“mine Got,
“Vat vill be next de Hebrew's lot?”
Jack smiling sings, “the lot of Ammon;”
“A gibbet, Moses, for your gammon.”
The Jew then striving Junk to fright,
Holds rusty pistol forth to sight,
And swears by all the prophets old,
No thief shall rob him of his gold;
And thus determin'd, cries—“begone,
“Or, by the Lort, I'll fire anon.”
“Fire and be d---n'd,” sings out the tar,
“Dost think to fright a man of war?
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“And send your Jew's soul to the devil.”
With indignation fully fraught,
In acting Junk was quick as thought;
With strength of Hercules he strives,
And door from off it's hinges drives;
Then, rushing onward, seizes fast
The beard of Jew, and roars,—“Avast!”
When Mordecai demands his pleasure;
Quoth Junk,—“I only vants my treasure,”
“Rhino from prizes justly gain'd,
“Which you, like scoundrel, have retain'd,
“So hand the duds, without more lip,
“Or, by the lord, your beard I'll clip.”
The son of Levy, on his guard,
Sings out,—“I'll do so, on mine vard.”
In cunning Moses is no failer,
So quick from passage leads our sailor,
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His child Rebecca may not see,
Who for assistance straight is hurried,
By Mother Mordecai—sore flurried;
Junk, without prelude, tells his name,
Recounts his prizes and his claim;
When Moses, who dares not refuse,
For passtime has recourse to ruse,
But Jack, our tar, will not be cramm'd,
So sings out,—“old vone, I'll be d---n'd,
“If longer you hold locker's prog,
“I'll drub your hide like bacon hog.”
The Jew now pleads excuse in vain,
“My vord's, my vord,” says Junk, “that's plain,
“So Mordecai, I'll now be brief,
“And baste you for a dirty thief.”
In vain sings out the smarting Jew,
His cries Jack's wrath cannot subdue,
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Junk ceases—for when off his legs
A son of Britain views his foe,
He never aims a second blow;
“There, Nip-cheese, lie,” cries Jack, “and rot,
“Avast, though, I had nigh forgot
“To ax vone question, ere I've done,
“Vich is, in all your cheating fun,
“To know how much your conscience stows
“Of sailors rhino, arn'd by blows?”
“Speak truth,” cries Junk, with flipper doubled,
Whereat old Israel's son, sore troubled,
Sings out—“Mine Got, I am content
“To gain but Fifty Powns per Shent.”
This modest truth was scarcely spoke,
'Ere constables the parley broke;
Tho' six to one, Jack strives amain,
Like baited bull that spurns his chain,
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Then falls exhausted on the field,
And thus to guard-house safely ta'en,
He there beholds his friends again,
Who all with grog on board surpriz'd,
By numbers were at length capsiz'd,
As Junk from Sally Port made way
For needful rhino, host to pay;
And tho' in limbo safely stow'd,
Junk never heeds the dark abode,
Once more his messmates glad to see,
With Mordecai recounts the spree;
'Till fumes of grog and toils ensteep
Their senses in profoundest sleep;
Where I, with blessings, bind the spell,
And bid them, for a while—farewell.
| Jack Junk or a cruize on shore | |