"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,