The Canary/The Old Commodore

by Charles Dibdin (1745-1814)

For other versions of this work, see The Old Commodore.

The Old Commodore.

Ods'blood what a time for a seaman to sculk,
Under gingerbread hatches ashore,
What a damn'd bad job that this old batter'd hulk
Can't be rigg'd out to sea once more.
But the puppies as they pass,
Cocking up a squinting glass,
Thus runs down the old commodore:
That's the old commodore,
The old rum commodore,
The gouty old commodore—He!
Why the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd his hull about,
That he'll never more be fit for the sea.

Here am I in distress, like a ship water-log'd,
Not a tow-rope at hand, nor an oar;
I'm left to my crew, and may I be flogg'd
But the doctor's a son of a whore.
While I'm swallowing his slops,
How nimble are his chops,
Thus quizzing the old commodore:
O bad case, commodore,
Can't say, old commodore,
Mus'n't flatter commodore, says he,
For the bullets and the gout
Have so knock'd your hull about
That you'll never more be fit for the sea.

What! no more to be afloat—blood and fury they lie,
I'm a seaman, and only threescore;
And if, as they tell me, I'm likely to die,
Gadzooks let me not die ashore.
As to death, 'tis all a joke,
Sailors live on fire and smoke,
So at least says an old commodore,
The rum old commodore,
The tough old commodore,
The fighting old commodore—he,
Whom the devil nor the gout,
Nor the French dogs to boot,
Shall kill, till they grapple him at sea.