University of Virginia Library

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174

LINES, KIMPOSED A BORED OF A CALIFORNY MALE-STEEMER.

BY A PARSINGER.

Fust wun side, dum it, and then tuther!
Till Ime dogged ef I no wot to du—
Rock away, yu darnd old kradle!
I wos a baby wen I got inter you.

None on em seems to keer 6¼ cents
How bad a feller may feel,
Nur to talk to him—not even the saler
Foolin away his time on a wheel.

Thar's the capting! aint it provokin
To see that critter, all threw the trip,
Continooally drinkin and smokin,
Wen he orter be a mindin on his ship.

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175

It's enuf to aggeravait a body,
And it aint manners, I think,
To set thar takin down his toddy,
And never askin nary parsinger to drink.

And the pusser, all he keers fur,
Is fur to hev a time with his pals.
I say, darn sech a pusser! jest heer him
Flurtin and carrin on among the gals!

And wen he's tired o' that, wot follers?
In his little cabbing thar he sets
Like a spyder, among berrils o' dollers—
Enuf to pay a feller's dets.

That's all they keers for parsingers,
Is, to git the two-hunder-
'N-fifty-dolers out of his pockit inter theirn,
And then he may go to thunder.

Ef a feller's driv to distraxion
In a blo, and axes wot to du,
He cant git no sort o' sattisfaxion
Out o' none on em—capting, mait, nur crew.

Wun day I clim inter their blamed riggin,
Jest to see wot thar wos, and in hopes
To kepe shet of em wun spell—but dog it!
I see 2 on em comin up the ropes.

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176

Wun on em ketcht me and hilt hold on me,
While tother misrable cuss
Tide me up with a nasty, sticky cloze-line,
Smellin o' tar or sumthin wuss.

Thar they kep me—darn their picturs!
And nobody done nothin but larf,
Till I'd forkt out fur a bottle o' brandy—
It come to $2½.

That's the last $2½
They'll ever git out o' me,
Fur Ile travvil in a durned top-waggin,
Afore Ile be ketc ht agin to see.