A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. THERE's some is born with their straight legs by naturAnd some is born with bow-legs from the first And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, And starboard, And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. 'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip; But on the tenth of May, When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship, I sees the mail Get under sail, The only one there was to make the trip. Well-I gives chase, But as she run Two knots to one, There warn't no use in keeping on the race! Well-casting round about, what next to try on, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : Well-there they stand, four kickers in a row, And so I just makes free to cut a brown'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur— So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, To splice me, heel to heel, Under the she-mare's keel, And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn! A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. My eyes how she did pitch! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays! Well-I suppose We hadn't run a knot-or much beyond- There I am!—all a-back! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears! What could a fellow do, 151 Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water? I didn't like my burth tho', howsomdever, The chase had gain'd a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking: Now, all the while Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking— And so she swell'd, and swell'd, And yet the tackle held, Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder! Well, there-off Hartford Ness, We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. And can't contrive a signal of distress; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn :— So I gets off, and lands upon the road, yarn. And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blow'd! And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd! 153 |