Mirth and Metre consisting of Poems, Serious, Humorous, and Satirical; Songs, Sonnets, Ballads & Bagatelles. Written by C. Dibdin, Jun |
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YO! YO! YO!” |
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 | Mirth and Metre |  |
YO! YO! YO!”
What argufies talking of danger and fear?
To a true British sailor it sounds rather queer;
When the ship rides at anchor he boozes on shore,
And spends his time merrily in pleasure galore;
'Cause he jigs it, and swigs it, and wheels the can round,
And helps each poor mate he may chance find aground;
And when sailing orders they come for to go,
Takes a kiss of his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
To a true British sailor it sounds rather queer;
When the ship rides at anchor he boozes on shore,
And spends his time merrily in pleasure galore;
'Cause he jigs it, and swigs it, and wheels the can round,
And helps each poor mate he may chance find aground;
And when sailing orders they come for to go,
Takes a kiss of his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
When the ship scuds away, and the land's left behind,
He gives all his sorrows, d'ye see, to the wind;
On the round top, or yards, how he'll whistle and sing,
And sleep in his hammock as sound as a king!
'Cause he jigs, &c.
And never leaves his spirits for a moment aground;
But if a sad thought comes athwart him, or so,
Heaves a sigh to his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
He gives all his sorrows, d'ye see, to the wind;
On the round top, or yards, how he'll whistle and sing,
And sleep in his hammock as sound as a king!
'Cause he jigs, &c.
And never leaves his spirits for a moment aground;
But if a sad thought comes athwart him, or so,
Heaves a sigh to his Poll, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
153
When the foe heaves in sight, then he flies to his post,
And with a broadsider he answers each boast;
Unless popp'd off to Davy he ne'er leaves his gun,
Till the enemy chuses to strike, or to run;
Then he jigs it, &c.
And splices each sail, or each mast that's aground;
Then carefully tends on the wounded below,
Heaves a sigh to their fate, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
And with a broadsider he answers each boast;
Unless popp'd off to Davy he ne'er leaves his gun,
Till the enemy chuses to strike, or to run;
Then he jigs it, &c.
And splices each sail, or each mast that's aground;
Then carefully tends on the wounded below,
Heaves a sigh to their fate, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
Thus all sorts of dangers he chearfully goes thro',
Till his reckoning is run, and his vessel broaches to;
Then the sailors prepare his sheer hulk for the wave,
A tar's boast and glory, a watery grave!
They nor jig it, &c.
But gather o'er their mate on fate's strand run aground;
Then mournfully heave him to Davy below,
Drop a tear as he sinks, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
Till his reckoning is run, and his vessel broaches to;
Then the sailors prepare his sheer hulk for the wave,
A tar's boast and glory, a watery grave!
They nor jig it, &c.
But gather o'er their mate on fate's strand run aground;
Then mournfully heave him to Davy below,
Drop a tear as he sinks, then Yo! Yo! Yo!
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