PATRICK O'NEAL,
Or, the Irishman's Description of a Man of War.
|
O YE sons of Hibernia, who're snug on dry land,
|
Round your sparkling turf fires, with whiskey in hand,
|
Drink a health to la ma fe and think on the boys,
|
Who're fighting your battles through tempest and noise;
|
O attend to my ditty it's true I declare!
|
Such fwimmings and linkings will make you all stare,
|
Such storms, squibs, and crackers, all whiz'd at my tail,
|
Since the press gang laid hold of poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
O it was on April the first I set off like a fool,
|
From Kilkenny to Dublin to see Laurence Tool,
|
My mother's third cousin who often wrote down,
|
For to come and to see how he florish'd in town;
|
But scarce had I set my foot in that terrible place,
|
When a spalpeen came and stared in my face,
|
He called to a pressgang who came without fail,
|
And soon neck and crap carried poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
They scampered away as they thought with a prize,
|
Taking me for a sailo[r], you see, in disguise,
|
But a terrible blunder they made in their strife,
|
For I ne'er saw the sea nor a ship in my life;
|
Then straight to a Tender they made me repair,
|
But of tenderness devil a morsel was there!
|
Och! I raved, stampt, and cursed, but it did not avail,
|
Por they would not let me go, O poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
The next morn from Dublin they sailed with their prey,
|
I was half starv'd and sea sick the rest of the way,
|
Not a mile stone I saw not a house nor a bed,
|
It was all water and sky till we came to Spithead;
|
Then they call'd up all hands, hands and feet soon obey'd,
|
O I wished myself at home digging paraties with a spade,
|
For the first sight I saw caused my spirits to fail,
|
Twas a big swimming castle for Patrick O'Neal.
|
O this terrible monster rolled about in the tide,
|
And two great rows of teeth were stuck fast in his side,
|
They bid me to mount and desired me to keep,
|
A fast hold with my trotters for fear I should slip;
|
So I let go with my hands to hold fast by my toes,
|
But the ship gave a reel and so down my head goes,
|
I fell plump into the water and splash'd like a whale,
|
Till pretty well pickled was Patrick O'Neal.
|
With a great swell of laughter they hoisted me in,
|
To the huge wooden world full of riot and din,
|
What strings and what pullies attracted my eye,
|
And how large were the sheets that were hung out to dry;
|
It seem'd Noah's ark, stuff'd with different guests,
|
Hogs, pedlars, geese, sailors, and all other beasts,
|
Some drank bladders of gin, and some pitchers of ale,
|
While some sat and laugh'd at poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
Then a rough mouth'd rapscallian on deck did advance,
|
So hoarse he whistled which made them all prance,
|
Up the ropes like monkies some ran, and some I declare,
|
Like gibbers or rope dancers hung in the air;
|
Then they clapt stick in the capstern, as I afterwards found
|
Where a chap sat and fifed while the twirled him round,
|
So the ship raised her anchor, spread her wings and set sail,
|
With a freight of life lumber and Patrick O'Neal.
|
Then to go down below I exprest a great wish,
|
Where they live under water like so many fish,
|
I was clapt in a mess with some more of the crew,
|
They call'd it banyan day ------ so gave me burgoo;
|
For a bed, I'd a sack hung as high as my chin,
|
They call'd it a hammock and bid me jump in,
|
I took a great leap but my footing was frail,
|
For clane over canted was Patrick O'Neal.
|
The devil a wink could I sleep all the night,
|
And awoke the next morning in a terrible fright,
|
Up hammocks, down chests, they began for to bawl,
|
Here's a Frenchman in sight, sure! says I, is that all?
|
Then to a gun I was station'd, they cry'd with an oath,
|
To pull of his breeches and unmuzzle his mouth,
|
They took off the apron that cover'd his tail,
|
And his lading strings gave to poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
Then we hauld up our large window shutters with speed
|
And run out our bull dogs of true British breed,
|
Then the captain cried England and Ireland my boys,
|
When he said Ireland my heart made a noise;
|
Then the noise of our guns did the Frenchmen defy,
|
They clapt fire on his back, and bid him let fly,
|
While the creature gave mouth I held fast by the tail,
|
But he kickt and run over poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
Thus we rattled away, by my soul, hob a nob,
|
Till the French gave up as he thought a bad job,
|
Then to tie him behind a large cord they did bring,
|
And we led him along like a pig in a string;
|
So home to old England we drag'd the French boy,
|
Oh! the sight of the land made me sea sick for joy,
|
Then they made a fresh peace when the war grew too stale,
|
And set all hands adrift with poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
So now on dry land a safe course I can steer,
|
The cat-head, cat-block, or boatswain's cat I don't fear,
|
Whilstt there's shot in the locker Ill sing Ill be bound,
|
And Saturday Night shall last all the week round,
|
But if peace grows too stale and war calls amain,
|
By the pipers of Limster Ill venture again,
|
Ill make another dry voyage and bring home such a tale,
|
That youll laugh till you cry at poor Patrick O'Neal.
|
|
|
|
|
|