LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, ye sulkies, there’s plenty more of us. Hoe corn when you may, say I. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! here comes the music; now for it!
AZORE SAILOR. (_Ascending, and pitching the tambourine up the scuttle_.) Here you are, Pip; and there’s the windlass-bitts; up you mount! Now, boys! (_The half of them dance to the tambourine; some go below; some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Oaths a-plenty_.)
OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I’ll dance over your grave, I will—that’s the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s a ball, as you scholars have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads, you’re young; I was once.
LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! boys, it’ll be douse sail soon. The sky-born, high-tide Ganges turned to wind! Thou showest thy black brow, Seeva!