Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,
With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot
And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.
Or was she wench . . .
Or some shuddering maid
That dared the knife
And that took the blade?
By God! she was stuff for a plucky jade!—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
We wrapped 'em all in a mains'l tight,
With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight,
And we heaved 'era over and out of sight—
With a yo—heave—ho!
And a fare—you—well!
And a sullen plunge
In the sullen swell,
Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
The history of this poem illustrates anew the fallibility of human evidence and the tenuous character of human veracity. It has been traveling the rounds of the newspaper and so-called literary press, pawed over by editors and copyreaders, sniffed at by office critics and regarded with mixed favor and distrust by "literary" printers, during a matter of twenty-odd years. There has been a considerable variation of text, since everybody wants to "improve," and thereby claim something in, an anonymous masterpiece.
I can't understand why there should ever have been any mystery or question about its authorship, unless the poet was for a long time indifferent to caveat or judged that a temporary sequestration of his title would redound to his greater ultimate fame. At any rate, these circumstances have given full play to the invention of fakers, the "pipes" of well-meaning hallucinants, and the painful ingenuity of those who weave literary mare's nests.
A fabrication of the latter sort deceived the Hawk-
