i heard tom’s treble, and a creaking noise, which i recognised to proceed from the dominie, who had joined the chorus; and i went aft, if possible to prevent further excess; but i found that the grog had mounted into the dominie’s head, and all my hints were disregarded. tom was despatched for the other bottle, and the dominie’s pannikin was replenished, old tom roaring out—
“come, sling the flowing bowl;
fond hopes arise,
the girls we prize
shall bless each jovial soul;
the can, boys, bring,
we’ll dance and sing,
while foaming billows roll.
“now for the chorus again—
“come, sling the flowing bowl, etcetera.
“jacob, why don’t you join?” the chorus was given by the whole of us. the dominie’s voice was even louder, though not quite so musical, as old tom’s.
“evoé!” cried the dominie; “evoé! cantemus.
“amo, amas—i loved a lass,
for she was tall and slender;
amas, amat—she laid me flat,
though of the feminine gender.
“truly do i not forget the songs of my youth, and of my hilarious days: yet doth the potent spirit work upon me like the god in the cumean sybil; and i shall soon prophecy that which shall come to pass.”
“so can i,” said tom, giving me a nudge, and laughing.
“do thine office of ganymede, and fill up the pannikin; put not in too much of the element. once more exalt thy voice, good dux.”
“always ready, master,” cried tom, who sang out again in praise of his favourite liquor—
“smiling grog is the sailor’s best hope, his sheet anchor,
his compass, his cable, his log,
that gives him a heart which life’s cares cannot canker.
though dangers around him,
unite to confound him,
he braves them, and tips off his grog.
’tis grog, only grog,
is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
the sailor’s sheet anchor is grog.”
“verily, thou art an apollo—or, rather, referring to thy want of legs, half an apollo—that is, a demi-god. (cluck, cluck.) sweet is thy lyre, friend dux.”
“fair words, master; i’m no liar,” cried tom. “clap a stopper on your tongue, or you’ll get into disgrace.”
“ubi lapsus quid feci,” said the dominie; “i spoke of thy musical tongue; and, furthermore, i spoke alle-gori-cal-ly.”
“i know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as for telling a hell of a (something) lie, as you states, i say i never did,” rejoined old tom, who was getting cross in his cups.
i now interfered, as there was every appearance of a fray; and in spite of young tom, who wished, as he termed it, to kick up a shindy, prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for nearly five minutes. when this was ended, i again entreated the dominie not to drink any more, but to go to bed.
“amice, jacobe,” replied the dominie; “the liquor hath mounted into thy brain, and thou wouldst rebuke thy master and thy preceptor. betake thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. verily, jacob, thou art plenus veteris bacchi; or, in plain english, thou art drunk. canst thou conjugate, jacob? i fear not. canst thou decline, jacob? i fear not. canst thou scan, jacob? i fear not. nay, jacob, methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy vision. canst thou hear, jacob? if so, i will give thee an oration against inebriety, with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. wilt thou have it in latin or in greek?”
“o, damn your greek and latin!” cried old tom; “keep that for to-morrow. sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall i sing you one? here goes—
“for while the grog goes round,
all sense of danger’s drown’d,
we despise it to a man;
we sing a little—”
“sing a little,” bawled the dominie.
“and laugh a little—”
“laugh a little,” chorused young tom.
“and work a little—”
“work a little,” cried the dominie.
“and swear a little—”
“swear not a little,” echoed tom.
“and fiddle a little—”
“fiddle a little,” hiccuped the dominie.
“and foot it a little—”
“foot it a little,” repeated tom.
“and swig the flowing can,
and fiddle a little,
and foot it a little,
and swig the flowing can—”
roared old tom, emptying his pannikin.
“and swig the flowing can—”
followed the dominie, tossing off his.
“and swig the flowing can—”
cried young tom turning up his pannikin empty.
“hurrah! that’s what i calls glorious. let’s have it over again, and then we’ll have another dose. come, now, all together.” again was the song repeated; and when they came to “foot it a little,” old tom jumped on his stumps, seizing hold of the dominie, who immediately rose, and the three danced round and round for a minute or two, singing the song and chorus, till old tom, who was very far gone, tripped against the coamings of the hatchway, pitching his head into the dominie’s stomach, who fell backwards, clinging to young tom’s hand; so that they all rolled on the deck together—my worthy preceptor underneath the other two.
“foot it rather too much that time, father,” said young tom, getting up the first, and laughing. “come, jacob, let’s put father on his pins again; he can’t rise without a purchase.” with some difficulty, we succeeded. as soon as he was on his legs again, old tom put a hand upon each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer—
“what though his timbers they are gone,
and he’s a slave to tipple,
no better sailor e’er was born
than tom, the jovial cripple.
“thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. i suspect we knocked the wind out of him. hollo, there, are you hard and fast?”
“the bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing,” quoth the dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him.
“senses going, do you say, master?” cried old tom. “don’t throw them overboard till we have made a finish. one more pannikin apiece, one more song, and then to bed. tom, where’s the bottle?”
“drink no more, sir, i beg; you’ll be ill to-morrow,” said i to the dominie.
“deprome quadrimum,” hiccuped the dominie. “carpe diem—quam minimum—creula postero.—sing, friend dux—quem virum—sumes celebrare—music amicus.—where’s my pattypan?—we are not thracians—natis in usum—laetitae scyphis pugnare—(hiccup)—thracum est—therefore we—will not fight—but we will drink—recepto dulce mihi furere est amico—jacob, thou art drunk—sing, friend dux, or shall i sing?
“propria quae maribus had a little dog,
quae genus was his name—
“my memory faileth me—what was the tune?”
“that tune was the one the old cow died of, i’m sure,” replied tom. “come, old nosey, strike up again.”
“nosey, from nasus—truly, it is a fair epithet; and it remindeth me that my nose—suffered in the fall which i received just now. yet i cannot sing—having no words—”
“nor tune, either, master,” replied old tom; “so here goes for you—
“young susan had lovers, so many that she
hardly knew upon which to decide;
they all spoke sincerely, and promised to be
all worthy of such a sweet bride.
in the morning she’d gossip with william, and then
the noon will be spent with young harry,
the evening with tom; so, amongst all the men,
she never could tell which to marry.
heigho! i am afraid
too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
“it pleaseth me—it ringeth in mine ears—yea, most pleasantly. proceed,—the girl was as the pyrrha of horace—
“quis multa gracillis—te puer in rosa—
perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus.
grate, pyrrha—sub antro?”
“that’s all high dutch to me, master; but i’ll go on if i can. my memory box be a little out of order. let me see—oh!
“now william grew jealous, and so went away;
harry got tired of wooing;
and tom having teased her to fix on the day,
received but a frown for so doing;
so, ’mongst all her lovers, quite left in the lurch,
she pined every night on her pillow;
and meeting one day a pair going to church,
turned away, and died under a willow.
heigho! i am afraid
too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
“now, then, old gentleman, tip off your grog. you’ve got your allowance, as i promised you.”
“come, master, you’re a cup too low,” said tom, who, although in high spirits, was not at all intoxicated; indeed, as i afterwards found, he could carry more than his father. “come, shall i give you a song?”
“that’s right, tom; a volunteer’s worth two pressed men. open your mouth wide, an’ let your whistle fly away with the gale. you whistles in tune, at all events.”
tom then struck up, the dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very sleepy—
“luck in life, or good or bad,
ne’er could make me melancholy;
seldom rich, yet never sad,
sometimes poor, yet always jolly.
fortune’s in my scale, that’s poz,
of mischance put more than half in;
yet i don’t know how it was,
i could never cry for laughing—
ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
i could never cry for laughing.
“now for chorus, father—
“ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
i could never cry for laughing.
“that’s all i know; and that’s enough, for it won’t wake up the old gentleman.”
but it did. “ha, ha, ha—ha, ha, ha! i could never die for laughing,” bawled out the dominie, feeling for his pannikin; but this was his last effort. he stared round him. “verily, verily, we are in a whirlpool—how everything turneth round and round! who cares? am i not an ancient mariner—‘qui videt mare turgidum—et infames scopulos.’ friend dux, listen to me—favet linguis.”
“well,” hiccuped old tom, “so i will—but speak—plain english—as i do.”
“that i’ll be hanged if he does,” said tom to me. “in half an hour more i shall understand old nosey’s latin just as well as his—plain english, as he calls it.”
“i will discuss in any language—that is—in any tongue—be it in the greek or the latin—nay, even—(hiccups)—friend dux—hast thou not partaken too freely—of—dear me! quo me, bacche, rapis tui—plenum—truly i shall be tipsy—and will but finish my pattypan—dulce periculum est—jacob—can there be two jacobs?—and two old toms?—nay—mirabile dictu—there are two young toms, and two dog tommies—each with—two tails. bacche, parce—precor—precor—jacob, where art thou?—ego sum tu es—thou art—sumus, we are—where am i? procumbit humi bos—for bos—read dobbs—amo, amas—i loved a lass. tityre, tu patulae sub teg-mine—nay—i quote wrong—then must i be—i do believe that—i’m drunk.”
“and i’m cock sure of it,” cried tom, laughing, as the dominie fell back in a state of insensibility.
“and i’m cock sure of it,” said old tom, rolling himself along the deck to the cabin hatch “that i’ve as much—as i can stagger—under, at all events—so i’ll sing myself to sleep—’cause why—i’m happy. jacob—mind you keep all the watches to-night—and tom may keep the rest.” old tom then sat up, leaning his back against the cabin hatch, and commenced one of those doleful ditties which are sometimes heard on the forecastle of a man-of-war; he had one or two of the songs that he always reserved for such occasions. while tom and i dragged the dominie to bed, old tom drawled out his ditty—
“oh! we sailed to virgi-ni-a, and thence to fy-al,
where we water’d our shipping, and so then weigh-ed all,
full in view, on the seas—boys—seven sail we did es-py,
o! we man-ned our capstern, and weighed spee-di-ly.
“that’s right, my boys, haul and hold—stow the old dictionary away—for he can’t command the parts of speech.
“the very next morning—the engagement proved—hot,
and brave admiral benbow received a chain-shot.
o when he was wounded to his merry men—he—did—say,
take me up in your arms, boys, and car-ry me a-way.
“now, boys, come and help me—tom—none of your foolery—for your poor old father is—drunk—.”
we assisted old tom into the other “bed-place” in the cabin. “thanky, lads—one little bit more, and then i’m done—as the auctioneer says—going—going—
“o the guns they did rattle, and the bul-lets—did—fly,
when brave benbow—for help loud—did cry,
carry me down to the cock-pit—there is ease for my smarts,
if my merry men should see me—’twill sure—break—their—hearts.
“going,—old swan-hopper—as i am—going—gone.”
tom and i were left on deck.
“now, jacob, if you have a mind to turn in. i’m not sleepy—you shall keep the morning watch.”
“no, tom, you’d better sleep first. i’ll call you at four o’clock. we can’t weigh till tide serves; and i shall have plenty of sleep before that.”
tom went to bed, and i walked the deck till the morning, thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what the dominie would say when he came to his senses. at four o’clock, as agreed, i roused tom out, and turned into his bed, and was soon as fast asleep as old tom and the dominie, whose responsive snores had rung in my ears during the whole time that i had walked the deck.
