he lead the seaman sprung,
And to the watchful pilot sung,
By the deep _nine_.

The song, roared out in grand chorus by the midshipmen, was caught up,
after the first verse, by the marines in their berth, close to them; and
from them passed along the lower deck as it continued, so that the last
stanzas were sung by nearly two hundred voices, sending forth a volume
of sound, that penetrated into every recess of the vessel, and entered
into the responsive bosoms of all on board, not excepting the captain
himself, who smiled, as he bent over the break of the gangway, at what
he would have considered a breach of subordination in the ship's
company, had not he felt that it arose from that warm attachment to
their country which had created our naval pre-eminence.

The song ended with tumultuous cheering fore and aft, and not until then
did the captain send down to request that the noise might be
discontinued. As soon as it was over, the grog was loudly called for in
the midshipmen's berth, and made its appearance.

"Here's to the white cliffs of England," cried one, drinking off his
tumbler, and turning it upside down on the table.

"Here's to the Land of Beauty."

"Here's to the Emerald Isle."

"And here's to the Land of Cakes," cried Stewart, drinking off his
tumbler, and throwing it over his shoulder.

"Six for one for skylarking," cried Prose.

"A hundred for one, you damned cockney, for all I care."

"No--no--no," cried all the berth; "not _one_ for _one_."

"You shall have a song for it, my boys," cried Stewart, who immediately
commenced, with great taste and execution, the beautiful air--

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

"Well, I've not had my toast yet," said Jerry, when the applause at the
end of the song had discontinued:--"Here's to the shady side of
Pall-mall."

"And I suppose," said Stewart, giving Prose a slap on the back, which
took his breath away, "that you are thinking of Wapping, blow you."

"I think I have had enough of whopping since I've been in this ship,"
answered Prose.

"Why, Prose, you're quite brilliant, I do declare," observed Jerry.
"Like a flint, you only require a blow from Stewart's iron fist to emit
sparks. Try him again, Stewart. He's like one of the dancing
dervishes, in the Arabian Nights: you must thrash him to get a few
farthings of wit out of him."

"I do wish that you would keep your advice to yourself, Jerry."

"My dear Pro