“And I worked aloft and I worked below,
I worked wherever I had to go,
And the winds blew hard and the winds blew cold,
And I sez to meself as the ship she rolled,

“`O Caribbee!  O Barbaree! 
O shores of South Amerikee! 
O, never go there:  if the truth be told,
You’ll get more kicks than Spanish gold.’”

“And that’s the truth, mate,” said Bill to Bunyip Bluegum.  “There ain’t no pirates nowadays at sea, except western ocean First Mates, and many’s the bootin’ I’ve had for not takin’ in the slack of the topsail halyards fast enough to suit their fancy.  It’s a hard life, the sea, and Sam here’ll bear me out when I say that bein’ hit on the head with a belayin’ pin while tryin’ to pick up the weather earring is an experience that no man wants twice.  But toon up, and a song all round.”

“I shall sing you the `The Penguin Bold,’” said Sam, and, striking a graceful attitude, he sang this song—­

“To see the penguin out at sea,
  And watch how he behaves,
Would prove that penguins cannot be
  And never shall be slaves. 
You haven’t got a notion
How penguins brave the ocean,
  And laugh with scorn at waves.

“To see the penguin at his ease
  Performing fearful larks
With stingarees of all degrees,
  As well as whales and sharks ;
The sight would quickly let you know
The great contempt that penguins show
  For stingarees and sharks.

“O see the penguin as he goes
  A-turning Catherine wheels,
Without repose upon the nose
  Of walruses and seals. 
But bless your heart, a penguin feels
Supreme contempt for foolish seals,
  While he never fails, where’er he goes,
  To turn back-flaps on a walrus nose.”

“It’s all very fine,” said the Puddin’ gloomily, “singing about the joys of being penguins and pirates, but how’d you like to be a Puddin’ and be eaten all day long?”

And in a very gruff voice he sang as follows:—­

“O, who would be a puddin’,
  A puddin’ in a pot,
A puddin’ which is stood on
  A fire which is hot ? 
O sad indeed the lot
Of puddin’s in a pot.

“I wouldn’t be a puddin’
  If I could be a bird,
If I could be a wooden
  Doll, I wouldn’t say a word. 
Yes, I have often heard
It’s grand to be a bird.

“But as I am a puddin’,
  A puddin’ in a pot,
I hope you get the stomachache
  For eatin’ me a lot. 
I hope you get it hot,
You puddin’-eatin’ lot!”

“Very well sung, Albert,” said Bill encouragingly, “though you’re a trifle husky in your undertones, which is no doubt due to the gravy in your innards.  However, as a reward for bein’ a bright little feller we shall have a slice of you all round before turnin’ in for the night.”

So they whistled up the plum-duff side of the Puddin’, and had supper.  When that was done, Bill stood up and made a speech to Bunyip Bluegum.