  A Song written on the Homeward Voyage, I’m Irish, if you like, and perhaps my name is Mike; I’m a land-crab, and but little of a sailor; So, for want of better news, now I’ll tell you of a cruise I once took on board a simple Yankee whaler. From New Bedford she was bound to the Western whaling ground, Where they said the whales were always found in plenty; So a willing son of toil, in the hope of striking oil, I shipped, the greenest hand amongst the twenty. Our old barque was staunch and sound, copper-fastened and well found,— When I call her old, don’t think that I deride her; Catalpa was her name, and when first on board I came, I can tell you it was rather “rough on Snyder;” For the captain and the mate, they were up both soon and late, And around the decks kept hollering and bawling; Though I wasn’t very sick, faith I’d rather cut my stick, Than those blasted ropes eternally keep hauling. Chorus.—Pass the bottle, if you please, now we’re sitting at our ease, Let us moisten up till song flows ripe and mellow; Here’s to every honest lass, and together as they pass, Here’s a health to every honest, manly fellow! Well we weathered out a gale, when we captured our first whale, And a bully hundred-barreller we got; May I never die in sin, when it came to cutting-in, All hell was there to pay, and no pitch hot; For the skipper stamped and tore, and the mates they jumped and swore, When they might as well just take it cool and easy; And the way the blubber flew round the decks among the crew, You’d imagine every man of them was crazy. So we cruised the season out where the sperm-whales did spout, And I learned what cutting-in and trying-out meant; When, on a friendly call, we anchored at Fayal, And sent our oil on shore there for transhipment. Then we hoisted sail again, bound for the Spanish main, Six months upon hard-tack, salt beef and pork. Some may like a sailor’s life, but I’d rather have a wife, And the humblest little shanty in New York. Chorus.—Pass the bottle round, etc. Steering for the river Platte, so the captain and the mate Told us, green ones, who inquired where we were going; But eastward, day by day, we kept bearing still away, And where he meant to stop there was no knowing. So the shellbacks then began to growl at the “old man,” Steering for the river Platte in such a manner; But as little did they know where the skipper meant to go, As a puppy dog of etiquette or grammar. Well, we sighted land at last, and soon our anchor cast, But to name the place, I guess, my friends, would fail ye; For the land to which we bore, and where we went ashore, Was Bunbury, in Western Australia. And then the joy began for every Irishman, Whose soul indignant spurns at British slavery, Who hates the tyrant guile, and the cunning, low and vile, That fosters cant, hypocrisy and knavery. Six Irish soldiers brave, rescued from the living grave, In which the cursed spite of England bound them, Life and liberty to save, came flying o’er the wave, And along with our bold skipper there we found them. Then the British lion roared for his captives; and, on board A steamer, sent out soldiery to find them; Police and volunteers, great guns and cannoneers, To capture, and once more in fetters bind them. They followed us all day, and we couldn’t get away, For the wind was light, and blowing on the land; And we tacked all through the night, till the early morning light Showed the steamer coming for us close at hand. Chorus.—Pass the bottle, etc. It was useless strife to wage, she had got the weather-gage, On the wind she couldn’t hope to outsail her; So we held upon our course, to see what moral force They’d try upon the simple Yankee whaler. Then hot in haste and rage, all ready to engage, They came like bloodhounds straining at the slip, And the boss of all these jailers, to frighten us poor sailors, Fired a round shot from his cannon at our ship. But he found us rather fly, alive, quite pert, and spry, Cool and ready for this boast, right little caring, And our answer soon went back, as upon the starboard tack, Right down upon his broadside we came bearing; For we knew our cause was just, so in God we put our trust, For Liberty, all threats and danger scorning; And o’er our heads there flew Freedom’s flag, red, white and blue, Streaming gaily in the breeze, our peak adorning. Then he hailed us once again, having blustered all in vain, With a mild request to let him come on board; But our captain answered no; “it would never do for Joe;” At sea to stop, he couldn’t well afford. So they left us in despair, and skulked off to their lair, Whilst our starry flag with joyful hearts we hail her, For the lion dropped his tail, and his growl became a wail, When bearded by a simple Yankee whaler. Chorus.—Pass the bottle, etc. I’m Irish if you like, and perhaps my name is Mike, I’m a land-crab, and but little of a sailor; From the Western whaling ground, all safe and homeward bound, On board a little, saucy Yankee whaler. |
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