Snarleyyow, or, the Dog Fiend. Фредерик Марриет

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      For Susan on my knee, my boys,

      With Susan on my knee.

      The gale came on in thunder, lads, in lightning, and in foam,

      Before that we had sail'd away three hundred miles from home;

      And on the Sunday morning, lads, the coast was on our lee,

      Oh, then I thought of Portsmouth, and of Susan on my knee.

      For howling winds and waves to boot,

      With black rocks on the lee,

      Did not so well my fancy suit,

      As Susan on my knee.

      Chorus.–

      With Susan on my knee, my boys,

      With Susan on my knee.

      Next morning we were cast away upon the Frenchman's shore,

      We saved our lives, but not our all, for we could save no more;

      They marched us to a prison, so we lost our liberty,

      I peeped between the bars, and sighed for Susan on my knee.

      For bread so black, and wine so sour,

      And a son a-day to me,

      Made me long ten times an hour,

      For Susan on my knee.

      Chorus--

      For Susan on my knee, my boys,

      For Susan on my knee.

      One night we smashed our jailer's skull and off our boat did steer,

      And in the offing were picked up by a jolly privateer;

      We sailed in her the cruise, my boys, and prizes did take we,

      I'll be at Portsmouth soon, thinks I, with Susan on my knee.

      We shared three hundred pounds a man,

      I made all sail with glee,

      Again I danced and tossed my can,

      With Susan on my knee.

      Chorus.–

      With Susan on my knee, my boys,

      With Susan on my knee.

      Chorus.–Very good song, and very well sung,

      Jolly companions every one;

      We are all here for mirth and glee,

      We are all here for jollity.

      Very good song, and very well sung,

      Jolly companions every one;

      Put your hats on to keep your heads warm,

      A little more grog will do us no harm.

      Says the parson one day, as I cursed a Jew,

      Do you know, my lad, that we call it a sin?

      I fear of you sailors there are but few,

      St Peter, to heaven, will ever let in.

      Says I, Mr Parson, to tell you my mind,

      No sailors to knock were ever yet seen,

      Those who travel by land may steer 'gainst wind,

      But we shape a course for Fidler's Green.

      For Fidler's Green, where seamen true,

      When here they've done their duty,

      The bowl of grog shall still renew

      And pledge to love and beauty.

      Says the parson, I hear you've married three wives,

      Now do you not know, that that is a sin?

      You sailors, you lead such very bad lives,

      St Peter, to heaven, will ne'er let you in

      Parson, says I, in each port I've but one,

      And never had more, wherever I've been;

      Below I'm obliged to be chaste as a nun,

      But I'm promised a dozen at Fidler's Green.

      At Fidler's Green, where seamen true,

      When here they've done their duty,

      The bowl of grog shall still renew,

      And pledge to love and beauty.

      Says the parson, says he, you're drunk, my man,

      And do you not know that that is a sin?

      If you sailors will ever be swigging your can,

      To heaven you surely will never get in.

      (Hiccup.) Parson, you may as well be mum,

      'Tis only on shore I'm this way seen;

      But oceans of punch, and rivers of rum,

      Await the sailor at Fidler's Green.

      At Fidler's Green, where seamen true,

      When here they've done their duty,

      The bowl of grog shall still renew,

      And pledge to love and beauty.