of his mess. With sharp thongs adroop the junior one awaits The word to uplift. "Untie him—so! Submission is enough, Man, you may go." Then, promenading aft, brushing fat Purser Smart, "Flog? Never meant it—hadn't any heart. Degrade that tall fellow? "—Such, wife, was he, Old Captain Turret, who the brave wine could stow. Magnanimous, you think?—But what does Dick see? Apron to your eye! Why, never fell a blow; Cheer up, old wifie, 't was a long time ago. But where's that sore one, crabbed and-severe, Lieutenant Lon Lumbago, an arch scrutineer? Call the roll to-day, would he answer—Here! When the Blixum's fellows to quarters mustered How he'd lurch along the lane of gun-crews clustered, Testy as touchwood, to pry and to peer. Jerking his sword underneath larboard arm, He ground his worn grinders to keep himself calm. Composed in his nerves, from the fidgets set free, Tell, Sweet Wrinkles, alive now is he, In Paradise a parlor where the even tempers be? Where's Commander All-a-Tanto? Where's Orlop Bob singing up from below? Where's Rhyming Ned? has he spun his last canto? Where's Jewsharp Jim? Where's Ringadoon Joe? Ah, for the music over and done, The band all dismissed save the droned trombone! Where's Glenn o' the gun-room, who loved Hot-Scotch— Glen, prompt and cool in a perilous watch? Where's flaxen-haired Phil? a gray lieutenant? Or rubicund, flying a dignified pennant? But where sleeps his brother?—the cruise it was o'er, But ah, for death's grip that welcomed him ashore! Where's Sid, the cadet, so frank in his brag, Whose toast was audacious—"Here's Sid, and Sid's flag!" Like holiday-craft that have sunk unknown, May a lark of a lad go lonely down? Who takes the census under the sea? Can others like old ensigns be, Bunting I hoisted to flutter at the gaff— Rags in end that once were flags Gallant streaming from the staff? Such scurvy doom could the chances deal To Top-Gallant Harry and Jack Genteel? Lo, Genteel Jack in hurricane weather, Shagged like a bear, like a red lion roaring; But O, so fine in his chapeau and feather, In port to the ladies never once jawing; All bland politesse, how urbane was he— "Oui, mademoiselle"—"Ma chhre amie!" 'T was Jack got up the ball at Naples, Gay in the old Ohio glorious; His hair was curled by the berth-deck barber, Never you'd deemed him a cub of rude Boreas; In tight little pumps, with the grand dames in rout, A-flinging his shapely foot all about; His watch-chain with love's jeweled tokens abounding, Curls ambrosial shaking out odors, Waltzing along the batteries, astounding The gunner glum and the grim-visaged loaders. Wife, where be all these blades, I wonder, Pennoned fine fellows, so strong, so gay? Never their colors with a dip dived under; Have they hauled them down in a lack-lustre day, Or beached their boats in the Far, Far Away? Hither and thither, blown wide asunder, Where's this fleet, I wonder and wonder. Slipt their cables, rattled their adieu, (Whereaway pointing? to what rendezvous?) Out of sight, out of mind, like the crack Constitution, And many a keel time never shall renew— Bon Homme Dick o' the buff Revolution, The Black Cockade and the staunch True-Blue. Doff hats to Decatur! But where is his blazon? Must merited fame endure time's wrong— Glory's ripe grape wizen up to a raisin? Yes! for Nature teems, and the years are strong, And who can keep the tally o' the names that fleet along! But his frigate, wife, his bride? Would blacksmiths brown Into smithereens smite the solid old renown? Rivetting the bolts in the iron-clad's shell, Hark to the hammers with a rat-tat-tat; "Handier a derby than a laced cocked hat! The Monitor was ugly, but she served us right well, Better than the Cumberland, a beauty and the belle." Better than the Cumberland!—Heart alive in me! That battlemented hull, Tantallon o' the sea, Kicked in, as at Boston the taxed chests o' tea! Ay, spurned by the ram, once a tall, shapely craft, But lopped by the Rebs to an iron-beaked raft— A blacksmith's unicorn in armor cap-a-pie. Under the water-line a ram's blow is dealt: And foul fall the knuckles that strike below the belt. Nor brave the inventions that serve to replace The openness of valor while dismantling the grace. Aloof from all this and the never-ending game, Tantamount to teetering, plot and counterplot; Impenetrable armor—all-perforating shot; Aloof, bless God, ride the war-ships of old, A grand fleet moored in the roadstead of fame; Not submarine sneaks with them are enrolled; Their long shadows dwarf us, their flags are as flame. Don't fidget so, wife; an old man's passion Amounts to no more than this smoke that I puff; There, there, now, buss me in good old fashion; A died-down candle will flicker in the snuff. But one last thing let your old babbler say, What Decatur's coxswain said who was long ago hearsed, "Take in your flying-kites, for there comes a lubber's day When gallant things will go, and the three- deckers first." My pipe is smoked out, and the grog runs slack; But bowse away, wife, at your blessed Bohea; This empty can here must needs solace me— Nay, sweetheart, nay; I take that back; Dick drinks from your eyes and he finds no lack!
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
