AN OTTER’S TALE
lying at anchor in the Downs a mackerel sky of keening gulls lift and lilt o’ broad upland downs bustards hover o’er Brighthelmstone tarry breeks, me, a Hampshire hog tucked hard by Bucklers Hard, the slips wrights rivet deals in shape o’ ships beyond the hamlet, tideways o’ Beaulieu all sails set, the heave o’ the sea i ached to sling my hammock ride hard a gale might break thy gall stiff and stark upon the yards dark, whirling clouds whip waterspouts foremastmen quake up i’ the shrouds e’en a buck o’ the first haul swaying up the topgallant mast a skylark amid the shrouds i clung to cordage fast sea running steeples high, drops steep in sudden rills our barque would like as ship whole seas white about the gills ‘tis a rejoicing day to cross the line, crossing the Equator green hands must pay bottle and pound to mix a punch o’ spirits and sugar halfseas o’er, all merry and malty lubbers squirting quids o’ baccy greenhorns ‘scape ducking and hoisting thrice after impressed at sea to serve the Crown boarded in a jiff bearded the frog’s frigates, that seven year tiff a mere Wappineer tar, a merchant salt homewardbound