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.

“That’s prime, Jemmy.  Now, my boys, all together,” cried Obadiah Coble.

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.

“Hurrah! now, Bill Spurey, suppose you tip us a stave.  But I say, Babette, you Dutch-built galliot, tell old Frank Slush to send us another dose of the stuff; and d’ye hear, a short pipe for me, and a paper o’ baccy.”

The short, fat Babette, whose proportions all the exercise of waiting upon the customers could not reduce, knew quite enough English to require no further explanation.

“Come, Jemmy, my hearty, take your fingers off your fiddle, and hand in your pot,” continued Coble; “and then if they are not going to dance, we’ll have another song.  Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat.  Here’s more ’baccy, Short.”

Short made no reply, but he shook out the ashes and filled his pipe.  The music did not strike up again, so Bill Spurey sang as follows:—­

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.