eet-anchor presently,
he'll be up in a jiffin--as soon as he has made fast the end of his
small rope athwart Jenny Bluegarter and Kate Common's stern posts.

FIRST SAILOR. Damn my eyes, but I suppose, messmate, we must bundle out
of our hammocks this cold weather, to make room for these black regulars
to stow in, tumble upon deck, and choose a soft berth among the snow?

SECOND SAILOR. Blast 'em, if they come within a cable's length of my
hammock, I'll kick 'em to hell through one of the gun ports.

BOATSWAIN. Come, come, brothers, don't be angry, I suppose we shall soon
be in a warmer latitude--the Kidnapper seems as fond of these black
regulars (as you call 'em, Jack) as he is of the brace of whores below;
but as they come in so damn'd slow, I'll put him in the humour of
sending part of the fleet this winter to the coast of Guinea, and beat
up for volunteers, there he'll get recruits enough for a hogshead or two
of New-England rum, and a few owld pipe-shanks, and save poor
Owld-England the trouble and expense of clothing them in the bargain.

FIRST SAILOR. Aye, BOATSWAIN, any voyage, so it's a warm one--if it's to
hell itself--for I'm sure the devil must be better off than we, if we
are to stay here this winter.

SECOND SAILOR. Any voyage, so it's to the southward, rather than stay
here at lazy anchor--no fire, nothing to eat or drink, but suck our
frosty fists like bears, unless we turn sheep-stealers again, and get
our brains knock'd out. Eigh, master cook, you're a gentleman
now--nothing to do--grown so proud, you won't speak to poor folks, I
suppose?

COOK. The devil may cook for 'em for me--if I had any thing to cook--a
parcel of frozen half-starv'd dogs. I should never be able to keep 'em
out of the cook room, or their noses out of the slush-tub.

BOATSWAIN. Damn your old smoky jaws, you're better off than any man
aboard, your trouble will be nothing,--for I suppose they'll be
disbursted in different messes among the Tories, and it's only putting
on the big pot, cockey. Ha, ha, ha.

COOK. What signifies, Mr. Boatswain, the big pot or the little pot, if
there's nothing to cook? no fire, coal or wood to cook with? Blast my
eyes, Mr. Boatswain, if I disgrease myself so much, I have had the
honour, damn me (tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it) to be chief cook
of a seventy-four gun ship, on board of which was Lord Abel-Marl and
Admiral Poke-Cock.

BOATSWAIN. Damn the liars--old singe-the-devil--you chief c