Od's blood! what a time for a seaman to skulk Under gingerbread hatches ashore, What a d----- bad job that this batter'd old hulk Can't be rigg'd out for sea any more; But the puppies as they pass, Cocking up their squinting glass, Thus run down the old commodore; That's the old commodore, The run old commodore, The gouty old commodore -- he Whom the bullets and the gout Have so knock'd his hull about, That he'll never more be fit for sea. * * * What! no more to be afloat! blood and fury, they lie, I'm a seaman, and only three score; And if, as they tell me, I'm likely to die, Gadzooks! let me not die ashore. As to death it's all a joke, Sailors live in fire and smoke, So, at least, says the old commodore; The fighting old commodore -- he Whom the bullets nor the gout, Nor the French dogs to boot, Shall kill, till they grapple him at sea. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE MOUNTAIN WHIPPOORWILL (A GEORGIA ROMANCE) by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET ADOLF EICHMANN by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS MOMENT by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE LITTLE FIRE IN THE WOODS by HAYDEN CARRUTH |