The large cases of goods were landed in a boat, not without a slight mishap, however, as one of them, in being lowered over the bulwarks, was carelessly unhitched by the men in the boat and tumbled overboard; it fell in three fathoms of water, but the water was so translucent that it was clearly discernible on the bottom.

This took quite an hour to get up, as it was an awkward thing to grapple, but there were plenty of hands willing to help in landing the goods, as several of the Guernsey men had come over to have a parting spree.

The pigs and donkey were pushed overboard and quickly reached the shore; the former, in spite of popular belief, proving themselves excellent swimmers when once they struck out shorewards, especially as the distance was short.  On landing they went up over the island, and for the time disappeared among the rocks and wild bushes.

By dusk the cry was, “All ashore,” as everything had been landed, and the “Cormorant” brought to a safe mooring under the lee of the rocky island of Crevicon.

Altogether there were nearly twenty of us, that is, my father and self, the skipper and crew of the “Kitty,” and several of the workmen who had been employed in altering and repairing the vessel; also the master shipwright, in whose charge the vessel had been.

First came a grand spread in the principal room of the house, the provisions for which had been brought over from St. Peter Port.  It was a great success, and after the improvised table had been cleared away (boxes, surmounted by planks covered with a sail, formed the table) the fun commenced.  Joke followed joke, and song followed song.  Then came toasts and sentiments, which were of quite an international character, as songs and sentiments in English, French, and Spanish were continuously fired off, most of them being of a seafaring character.

The skipper of the “Cormorant” led off with a regular old North Sea song, called, “The Dark-eyed Sailor.”  It is probably known by nearly every seaman in the North Sea Fishery, and is a great favourite at all carousals.  It commences: 

“It’s of a comely young maiden fair,
Who walked on the quay to take the air,
She met a young sailor on the way,
So I paid attention, so I paid attention to what they did say.”

This song, sung by a Norfolk man, always seems to me a great curiosity, as the last line is lengthened out and twisted about in a most grotesque manner, apparently to suit the whim or fancy of the singer, for no two of them seem to conjure vocally with it in the same way.  Everyone present is supposed to join in the last line as a kind of chorus, and not only join in, but “give it lungs,” as they say.  Some of them pay such attention to these points, that they appear in danger of lockjaw, or the starting of a blood-vessel, so heartily do they sing.

Then came a French song, with a chorus something about “Houp, houp, houp a tra-la-la-la!” the singer standing on the top of an empty barrel to warble, and as he set the fashion, so every succeeding singer followed suit, and mounted the “pulpit,” as they dubbed the cask.