Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Every Bullet has its Billet

Every Bullet Has Its Billet.

I'm a tough true-hearted sailor,
Careless and all that, d'ye see,
Never at the times a railer—
What is time or tide to me?
All must die when fate shall will it,
Providence ordains it so:
Every bullet has its billet,—
Man the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo!

"Life's at best a sea of trouble,
He who fears it is a dunce;
Death to me's an empty bubble,
I can never die but once.

Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it;
Yet I have a tear for woe
Every bullet has its billet,—Man
the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo!

Shrouded in a hammock, glory
Celebrates the falling brave;
Oh, how many, famed in story,
Sleep below in ocean's cave!
Bring the can, boys—let us fill it;
Shall we shun the fight? Oh, no!
Every bullet has its billet,—Man
the boat, boys—Yeo, heave yeo!