  BY WALLACE IRWIN IT were the good ship Gentle Jane On which we et and slept, The tightest, safest little craft As ever sailed, except— Her cargo it wuz gasolene And pitch-wood kindling light And powder fine and turpentine And tar and dynamite. Our crew wuz tried and trusty men As ever sailed the wet, And so I had full confidence In their discretion, yet— The cook would dump hot, glowin’ coals In that there gasolene, And them there tars would smoke cigars In the powder magazine. “Oh, Cap,” I sez to Capting White With reverent respect, “Now couldn’t we in trifles be A bit more circumspect?” “Well I’ll be blowed!” the Capting sez To pass the matter by. “Unless I’m wrong ere very long We’ll all be blowed,” sez I. And as I croke this little joke The sea got very rough, The gong went clang! the hull went bang! Our gallant ship went puff! A cloud o’ smoke with us on top A million fathoms lept— Yet in that muss not one of us Wuz scratched or hurt, except— Our gallant Capting lost his head. Our Mate his limbs and breath, The soup wuz spilled, our crew wuz killed, Our cook wuz scared to death. So often in the stilly night I long with fond regret To sail again the Gentle Jane Upon the sea, and yet— |
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