icon.

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.

Old Roscoe, our wooden-legged mate (the right leg of flesh having been
lost in my father's service), gave a funny jaw-breaking Scotch song,
with a chorus which no one could repeat, so when the chorus came he sang
it alone, while we contented ourselves with howling "Rule Britannia"--at
least all those who knew it, while the others who di