never through,
But our fav'rite dish is pig.
And she cuts off slabs and passes 'em 'round,
And the Duke, he takes her hand.
Me Darlin', me love, by the gods above,
Yer a cook fer a pirate band.

_And now Darlin' again._

Me grog is the best. It is made o' rum,
And I stirs in sugar, too.
And a hogshead vast will hardly last
A merry evenin' through.
And I fills the cups till mornin' comes,
And the Duke, he talks like a loon.
Me Darlin', me life, will yer be me wife,
And elope by the light o' the moon.

(_Let all the tinware crash!_)

CAPTAIN: (_as he throws down his cards_). There! I done yer. Yer a
child at cards, Patch. How ain 't it that yer never learnt? Did n't
yer ever play black-ace at the Rusty Anchor down Greenwich way? Crack
me hook, I 've played with ol' Flint hisself, settin' in the leetle
back room. With somethin' wet and warmin' now and then, jest ter keep
the stomich cozy. Never stopped till Phoebus's fiery eye looked in
the winder.

[Illustration: "Did n't yer ever play Black-ace at the Rusty Anchor?"]

PATCH: Poor ol' Flint! I never sees his clock up there but I drops a
tear.

CAPTAIN: Yer cries as easy as a crocodile. And yer as innercent at
cards as--as a baby bitin' at his coral, a cooin' leetle pirate.

PATCH: It 's frettin' does it, Captain.

CAPTAIN: What 's frettin' yer?

PATCH: It 's what the ol' lady said last night. She hung me ter a
gibbet, jest like ol' Flint. There 's a gibbet, Captain, on Wappin'
wharf, jest 'round the corner from the Sailors' Rest. Does yer
remember it, Captain? It makes yer grog belch on yer.

CAPTAIN: (_to tease and frighten Patch_). Aye. There was two sailormen
hangin' there when I comes in a year ago.

PATCH: Horrers!

CAPTAIN: Jest swingin' in the wind, and tryin' ter get their toes down
comfertable. (_He has hooked two empty mugs and he rocks them back and
forth._) Jest reachin' with their footies ter ease theirselves.

[Illustration: "Jest swingin' in the wind"]

PATCH: The ol' lady last night made me a wee bit creepy. Gibbets and
Wappin' wharf ain 't nothin' ter talk about.

CAPTAIN: I never see a flock o' crows but I asks their pardon fer
keepin' 'em waitin' fer their supper. Crows, Patch, is fond o' yer as
yer are, without neither sauce ner gravy--jest pickin' 'appy, soup
ter nuts, at yer dry ol' bones. Here 's ol' Patch, they says, waitin'
in the platter fer his 'ungry gue