Classic Poem

spoken by Mr. Garrick in the character of a sailor, fuddled and talking to himself

Well, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow,
A sailor half seas o'er 's a pretty fellow.
What cheer ho! Do I carry too much sail?
No, tight and trim, I scud before the gale.
But softly though — the vessel seems to heel.
Steady, my boy — she must not show her keel.
And now, thus ballasted, what course to steer?
Shall I again to sea and bang Mounseer?
Or stay on shore and toy with Sall and Sue?
Dost love 'em, boy? By this right hand I do!
A well-rigged girl is surely most inviting:
There's nothing better, faith, save flip and fighting.
For shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop,
Or lower our flag to slavery and soup?
What, shall these parleyvoos make such a racket,
And we not lend a hand to lace their jacket?
Still shall old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he shuffles we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith — avast! — before I go
Have I not promised Sall to see the show?
From this same paper we shall understand
What work's tonight — I read your printed hand.
But, first, refresh a bit, for, faith, I need it.
I'll take one sugar-plum and then I'll read it.
At the The-atre Royal, Drury Lane,
will be presen-ta-ted a tragedy called

Sarah.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah . Then our Sal may see
Her namesake's tragedy, and as for me,
I'll steep as sound as if I were at sea.
To which will be added a new masque.
Zounds! Why a masque? We sailors hate grimaces.
Above board all, we scorn to hide our faces.
But what is here so very large and plain?
Bri-tan-nia — oh Britannia! — good again.
Huzza, boys! By the Royal George I swear,
Tom coxon and the crew shall straight be there.
All free-born souls must take Bri-tan-nia's part,
And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart.
I wish you landmen, though, would leave your tricks,
Your factions, parties and damned politics,
And, like us honest tars, drink, fight and sing,
True to yourselves, your country and your king.