The Bold Buccaneer

One very rough day on the Pride of the Fray In the scuppers a poor little cabin-boy lay, When the Bosun drew nigh with wrath in his eye And gave him a kick to remember him by, As he cried with a sneer: “What good are you here? Go home to your mammy, my bold buccaneer.” Now the Captain beheld, and his pity upwelled: With a plug in the peeper the Bosun he felled. With humility grand he extended his hand And helped the poor lad, who was weeping, to stand, As he cried: “Have no fear; I'm the manager here. Take heart, and you'll yet be a bold buccaneer.” But how he did flare when the lad then and there Doffed his cap and shook down a gold banner of hair. Though his movements were shy, he'd a laugh in his eye, And he sank on the Captain's broad breast with a sigh, As he cried: “Is it queer that I've followed you here? I'm your sweetheart from Bristol, my bold buccaneer.” On an isle in the west, by the breezes caressed, The bold buccaneer has a warm little nest, And he sits there in state amid pieces of eight And tackles his rum with a manner elate, As he cries: “O my dear little cabin-boy, here Is a toast to the babe of the bold buccaneer!”