ear.

In Bristowe I left Poll ashore,
Well stored wi' togs and gold;
An' off I goes to sea for more,
A-piratin' so bold.
An' wounded in the arm I got,
An' then a pretty blow;
Comes home I finds Poll flowed away.
Yo ho, with the rum below.

"Adad, brother," cries Joe, clapping the little man on the
shoulder, "why have you stowed away your noble talents so long
under hatches? I've sailed the seas for many a year; east, west,
north and south, as the saying is; Blacks, Indians, Moors,
Morattos, and Sepoys; but smite my timbers, never such a man of
music have I drawn alongside of before."

Runnles blushed like a girl, and said never a word, but blew the
moisture out of his flute, ready for the next stanza.

An' when my precious leg was lopt.
Just for a bit of fun,
I picks it up, on t'other hopt,
An' rammed it in a gun.
"What's that for?" cries out Salem Dick.
"What for, my jumpin' beau?
Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!"
Yo ho with the rum below.

By this time the other men had got the hang of the song, and when
Joe started the next stanza they joined in, trolling the tune (they
knew not the words as yet) in voices high and low, rough and coarse
for the most part, and with more heartiness than melody. This happy
thought of Joe's cured our dumps and put us all in a good temper,
and for the rest of that morning we sat singing songs, and
listening to the tootling of Runnles' flute, when the little man
could be prevailed on to treat us to a solo.

"You be mighty bashful for a sailor man," said Joe at the end of
the concert, "partickler as your name be Joe like mine, but we
won't let 'ee hide your talents any more, split my braces if we
will."

It was on the night of that day that Vetch got his thrashing. We
had gone early to our dormitory because of the rain, and being
unable to sleep for the cold, one of the men suggested that Runnles
should give us a tune.

"'Tis comfortin' to the spirits," said the man, a big fellow known
to us as the bosun: his name was Peter Wiggett.

Runnles, evidently gratified at this mark of appreciation, put his
flute together and began to pipe the tune of Mr. Ackroyd's famous
song of the fight in '92 when Admiral Russell beat the French.
This, to be sure, was rather inspiriting than soothing, and thus
perhaps there was a shadow of excuse for Vetch when he called out
from under his coverlet (he lay in the next bed):

"Cease that squealing, hang you, and let a man get to slee