University of Virginia Library

Jack Junk

or a Cruize on Shore

A Humorous Poem by the Author of the Sailor Boy

[“Here am I, Poor Jack]

CANTO THE FIRST.

Avast! Achilles, Grecian fam'd,
And fiery Hector, Trojan nam'd;
Avast! your Philips, Alexanders,
Your Cæsars too, war's Salamanders;
And eke give way, Imperial Nap,
For thou, alike, must doff the cap
To Neptune's darling son of war,
I mean Jack Junk, the British Tar.
An hero who in gallant fray
Was never known to run away;
But scars of honor nobly earn,
Upon the stem, instead of stern;
A tar, in short, that scorn'd to flinch,
True British Sailor ev'ry inch.
Such is the theme that fires my strain,
O! may the muse not toil in vain;
But all those pastimes now rehearse,
That well might claim more polish'd verse;
To which past fetes, and those to come,
Are little better than a hum;
Since souls of taste could never choose
'Twixt Alexander's famous booze,
Or Cleopatra's vaunted fun,
When she Marc Anthony had done.
In short all these are rows but windy,
Compar'd with Jack Junk's glorious shindy,
Since jovial sailor's hop at Point,
Puts all such pastimes out of joint.
Yet hold, I'll give no longer lip,
Preludes won't do on board of ship;
For honest tars, I swear by jingo,
Can ne'er abide palav'ring lingo;
They're all straight forward men and true,
Wherefore to make no more ado.
Jack Junk on board the dauntless Fame
Had full five years enrol'd his name,
And weather'd Eastern India's rays,
Where Sol pours forth his sultry blaze;
And thence, from hostile cannon's roar,
Had guarded safe to Albion's shore
The convoy, with rich cargo freighted,
That makes our merchant's souls elated.
At Spithead moor'd, the Fame now rides,
And veers with changing of the tides;
There soon Commissioner on board,
From Portsmouth bears the precious hoard;
Pays wages of the tars in flimsies,
While Jack Junk's mind, replete with whimsies,
Fingers an Hundred Pounds and more,
With which he'll have rare spell on shore;
Kick up the breeze with wenches neat,
Enjoy the grog—dispense the treat;
And prove, at Portsmouth Point, a sailor
Is always found true pleasure's nailer.
Thus, bless'd with cash, Jack Junk behold,
Whose heart is cast in princely mould;
Whose gen'rous spirit nought enchains,
Staunch as the blood that warms his veins;
Whose hand, like needle to the pole,
Performs the purpose of his soul,
To messmates poor dispensing wide,
The hard earn'd rhino—golden tide;
From which Jack two-fold joy obtains,
With mirthful pleasures, easing pains.
Nor less the female craves his aid,
Her potent plea with joy obey'd;
Woman! the sailor's darling care,
For Jack would die to serve the fair,
And though he yeilds to Cyprian bands,
A girl distress'd no less commands
The sailor's purse, his maxim true,
That love keeps pity's shrine in view.
With pockets loaded like a Jew's,
Jack burns on shore to have a cruize;
Strikes of tobacco box the lid,
Then turns with pliant tongue the quid;
And taking straight from can a sup,
O'er hips he lugs his trowsers up,
And thus the matter argufies;
“I've rhino plenty, bless my eyes,
“But vats the good of this here cash?
“On board I cannot make a splash;
“Give me the girls a shore, and prog,
“The elbow scraper, flip, and grog;
“'Tis then I shows I've got some spunk,
“I'faith it's true—for I'm Jack Junk.”
Tars can't abide deliberation,
Like Ministers that steer the nation;
Wherefore disdaining further thought,
Our seaman's reasoning being tort;
Onward he goes, with rolling stride,
In hopes he may not be denied
The liberty on shore to go,
A welcome—Yes—wakes pleasure's glow;
Whereat the quid from starboard side,
Is straight to larboard cheek applied;
Thus fortune proves the seaman's friend,
For luck on valour must attend.
Junk stows below one half his pelf,
Then mounts on deck like fairy elf,
And down the ship's side nimbly clews,
His mind intent on jolly cruize;
Anon with measur'd stroke each oar,
From Spithead wafts the boat to shore;
Her bows the liquid surface break,
While at her stern the frothy wake
Now foams, then length'ning to the sight,
Appears one stream of gemmy light;
Arriv'd at Point, our hero straight,
Springs bolt a shore, with mind elate,
Then rubbing hands, cries—“Here's sea room,
“Now safe ashore, I'll top my boom.”
The cruize commences, off they veer,
For fiddles, prog, and girls they steer;
Now bearing up at Capstan Square,
Choice dainty lasses greet 'em there.
Bet Stride her ruby color shows;
Sal Walker sports her bowsprit nose;
Nan Brag her bulky breeching rears;
Pol Sherwin shows the bottles tears;
And last, far fam'd for fisty prize,
Mol Chauntress view, with bung'd up eyes.
No ceremonies here can nip
The pastimes found in pleasure's ship;
A dance becomes the gen'ral cry,
All hands agreed, for Point they hie;
Lock Dolly's wing within their own,
More proud than monarch on his throne,
And gain the seaman's birth divine
At Point; the Jolly Sailor's sign;
The call is bitters now and gin,
While fiddlers twain increase the din;
The sound proclaims the well-known shop,
And Junk, exulting, cries—“A hop;”
The dance begins, they foot it neat,
And Jack believes 'tis heav'ns own seat.
Yet soft, kind reader, for, no doubt,
Amongst this lovely female rout,
Of Junk the choice you fain would know,
Who makes these lines heroic flow.
It was not ruby-color'd Bet;
Nor Sal, with nose and chin that met;
Nor Nan, that cargo shows in stern;
Nor Pol, whose phiz old nick would burn.
These might have serv'd, had none been better,
But Mol enchain'd him in her fetter;
Yes, she that could some ruby boast,
Of every tar, the standing toast;
She, who had not of nose an ell,
Nor breech as huge as Pekin's bell;
No, nor grog-blossoms, that outvie
The glowing hue of Tyrian dye;
But sterling Mol, who with each glim
Bung'd up, excited Jack Junk's whim;
Long known to brave all stormy weather,
Her tail, ne'er showing one white feather.
Such was the choice of fighting Jack,
Who lov'd no sniv'lers at his back;
But bred to warfare, liv'd for fight,
And spent years earnings in a night.
With gin and dancing am'rous grown,
Jack's arm encircles Molly's zone;
He swears of Cupid all he knows,
That tho' her glims are black with blows,
In honor's noble conflict won,
For Mol had ne'er been known to run;
Yet still she was, to please his sight,
A well-rigg'd frigate—right and tight;
The dalliance o'er, they join anew
Their jigging messmates—jovial crew;
And, as they 'gin the dance, our Jack,
Shaking the flipper of Tom Tack,
Cries—“Nought on shore so well can rouse
“As clearing out at Custom House.”
The laugh goes round, they sing and jest,
And foot it nimbly, breast to breast;
The O be joyful! plenteous flows,
In ev'ry eye good humour glows;
While grub, in mad profusion spread,
The body cheers—as grog the head;
In fine, the whole is gig and fun,
The Zenith bright of pleasure's sun;
They dance till limbs no more can move,
Then, half-seas over, talk of love;
Aloud they chaunt “God save the King,”
And “Rule Britannia” boisterous sing;
Of “Cease rude Boreas” verses try,
Recalling scenes that raise the sigh;
For tars, though thoughtless, now and then
Can think and feel like polish'd men;
Anon to chase this transient gloom,
The girls love's potent wiles assume;
Fond kiss each weather-beaten cheek,
And toy like tender lambkins meek;
Around the neck entwine the arm,
And swear each help-mate's free from harm;
Such winning wiles subdue Jack's heart,
Who knows rough Nature's void of art;
The hour of danger soon forgot,
And former messmates hapless lot;
The order's issued; straight the bowl
Of punch enlivens ev'ry soul;
Fumes from tobacco next assume
Their foggy empire thro' the room;
Song, fiddle, chatter, all confound,
'Till one rude chaos reigns around;
At length, o'ercome with grub and booze,
Their flagging spirits bid 'em snooze;
Striving to rise, they o'er turn benches,
And tumble head long with their wenches;
Thus levell'd low with kindred earth,
'Till landlord stows each pair in birth;
Here ends the scene—the sand is run—
Of Jack is spent the first day's fun.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.

CANTO IV.

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;
For after all is said and done,
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;
A theme, I trust, will please my tars,
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!”
While elbow-scrapers, all grown groggy,
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;
Swears, by the Lord, his sense is waking,
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.
Jack, who disdains the parish stocks,
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;
When lo! on stairs, our tars to drub,
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;
While weapons from each seaman's hand
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,
Four sailors passing wish to see
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,
Bids guard house and its crew farewell,
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.
While Junk with friends and messmates thus—
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;
Wherefore to end our seaman's gig,
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,
The payment they would share with Jack,
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,
But seeks in vain for gold or paper,
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.
Jack rising reels, and gains the door,
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;
“Who's dere?”—Junk cries, “Avast, give way,
“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?
“Avast! I'll teach you to be civil,
“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,
That stow'd in hinder parlour he,
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,
'Till prostrate stretch'd, for grace he begs,
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,
Till spent with toil he scorns to yield,
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.

CONCLUSION.

At once to end the Muse's toils,
From land remov'd and all its broils;
View Junk and tars the Fame on board,
In safety by marines restor'd;
If hulls you can deem water tight,
Thus maim'd in gallant shindey's fight;
Bob Boom, laid up with broken fin;
Tom Tackle, with three ribs stove in;
Bill Stay-sail, with two bung'd up eyes,
And nob of pumpkin's hugest size;
Ned Block, with broken pin laid fast;
And not least priz'd, tho' nam'd the last,
Our Junk, whose shatter'd jaw gives token
Of red hot row, while flat and broken
His bowsprit, gives the surgeon job,
Capsiz'd the once fam'd bridge of snob.
Lo! such the honors gain'd by fist,
And all hands on the doctor's list.
Sometime our Jack had been convey'd
On board the Fame, when Tom, by trade
A waterman, with skill profound,
At Point 'gins beating up his round,
To see, in quest of rhino led,
What girls will put off for Spithead;
And 'mongst the troop by Tom enroll'd,
Who proffer'd persons up for gold,
Within his ample wherry glide,
Bet Sherwin with her friend Poll Stride,
Sal Walker and Mahoney sly,
And Junk's Moll Chantress, with black eye.
With this prime cargo, to the gale
Tom plies the oar and sets the sail,
When, urg'd by winds, he scuds it neat
O'er billows, and plies all the fleet.
Tom finding freightage goes off dull,
Now for the Fame begins to pull,
And gaining soon the war ship's side,
By Junk his Moll is quick descried,
Who sings out to his messmates four.
Our fancy pieces, lads, from shore.
Permission gain'd, to solace life,
Thro' port-hole Jack then lugs his wife;
And though he doats on fancy Doll,
He first enquires—“Neath apron, Moll,
“Hast brought the bladder, stor'd with gin?”
Moll tips the wink, when quick her fin
From thence produces heart'ning liquor,
Which soon makes both their tongues run quicker,
As straight converted into grog,
They whistles wet and take their prog.
In turn Jack Junk and messmates tell
Delights of many a shindy spell,
In which the girls support a part,
For each well knows the tale by heart.
Sometimes they sing, and sometimes jig it,
And smuggling gin from bumboats—swig it.
Three weeks alive is kept the game,
On board Junk's ship, the gallant Fame;
But time, that always makes an end,
And parts the lover and the friend,
Now severs these two babes of earth,
Since Moll must quit, of Jack the birth,
No tear-drop glistens in her eye,
Junk's bosom vents no far-fetch'd sigh;
Expecting rhino, Molly lingers,
Jack twigs her meaning, and his fingers
From locker quickly draw the hoard,
With which from land he came on board,
And thus bespeaks his girl anon,
The shore boat waiting to be gone.
“In two days, Moll, with you on shore,
“I spent full fifty pounds and more,
“And for three weeks with me you've been
“On board, well plied with prog and gin,
“So now, to square our yards, dear Molly,
“I've something left to make you jolly;
“There's sixpence vench, go get a feast,
“But of yourself don't make a beast.”
Thro' port-hole then, his soul's dear life,
Junk hands his ammunition wife;
While Moll, within the shore boat stow'd,
Looks up towards her late abode,
And with clench'd fists and raven's note,
Tips Jack this lingo from her throat:
“Had I but known, you dirty scamp,
“Your flipper thus had got the cramp,
“Ere I from shore had ta'en this trip,
“To stay on board your filthy ship,
“To nick I'd seen the skulking crew,
“And scurvy blackguards, such as you;
“So curse the gallows Fame for me,
“And may she founder when at sea.”
The shore boat steering fast from ship,
To winds Moll Chauntress gives the lip,
While Junk and messmates, swipes then quaffing;
Near split their honest sides with laughing.
So in such merry mood I'll leave 'em,
Accurs'd be he that e'er would grieve 'em
Sings out the bard—whose mind foresees
That whensoe'er a fav'ring breeze
Shall waft our Junk the foes to dare,
Of fighting Jack will take his share,
And, crown'd with laurel, sweep the sea,
With England's flag of Victory;
Old Ocean's race at once to bless,
May British Tar ne'er know distress;
And Junk for ever rank his name,
On board our isle's eternal Fame.