27 WALKING DISTILLER 5

WALKING DISTILLER

Anger burns as a lanthorn’s glim Hate bores weevils in galley grub Traps will ne’er slang me for prime rigs. Any salt­box I’ll undub Scots by birth and scot by temper Ain’t afeared of the flogger’s flail Give me fifty crost raw shoulders I’ll ne’er flinch, nor plead, not squeal Two hundred lags rushed Woolwich gates Charged our keepers to seize a bark The dragoons shot dead many a mate Death we hunted, not dread hulks’ dark More than Cock Inn, missed fighting­cocks owling squire’s game fowls at darks and pinching ‘stead of mending clocks But water sneaks is chancy larks Scaly fish, me, a sea­crab. Bang Slipped the lag­ship, flash freebooter Absconded from the iron gang Sneaked a brig so knapped a winder By beak’s order slanged in rivets Bay side transport to Port Phillip Baked dry, ‘twas, proper lime­basket Not one drop o’ the bane or strip­ me­naked. So I nuts Guv’nor Collins, a reg’lar right­down flat Keep privies clean, overseer No filth in the fresh stream or lat­ rines. Blood! I’d settle ‘im! I’d nob it on the stores. I’d muster staunch jacks. Edicated chum is Rob

Stewart. Made mates at a good hank Deserted camp in Knopwood’s tub Three whole weeks of old salts’ pleasure Yarning, smoking, dancing and grub growling with birds of a feather Green was Knopwood, took me fishing Pirate, says Robbie, or forger Me? Pure piss­fire pishing Ne’er no ordinar file­lifter Calcutta lags from London Town Hard as the hobs of hell and bold We seized the brig, the Harrington Pirates in search of guinea gold We hankered after liberty heavers stealing heaven’s sway Our hard­a­weather lads looked lively auld hornie in chase to Cathay Cut cables and fly, rum laggers Otaheite afore the mast Fakers and fidlams turn whalers or choke at the yard­arm abaft

Michael Small

February 10­13, 2004