The Rhyme of the Nancy Bell.

Twas on the shores that round this coast from Deal to Ramsgate Span,
When I met alone on a lump of stone an elderly Naval man.
Well his hair was wheaty, his beard was long, wheaty and long was he,
And heard this white on the shore recite in a singular minor key,
“Oh I am a cook and a captain bold, and the Mate of the Nancy Brig,
And a Boatswain tight and a Midship mite, and the crew of the Captain’s Gig.”

Well he wrung his hands and he tore his hair till it nearly felt affray,
And I couldn’t help thinkin’ that the man been drinkin’ so I quickly began to say,
“Oh elderly man, it’s little I know of the ways of a man at sea,
But I’ll eat my hand if I can understand how you ever became to be,
At once a cook and a captain bold and the Mate of the Nancy Brig,
And a Boatswain tight and a Midship mite and the crew of the Captain’s gig.”

Well he give a hitch to his trousers which is a trick all seamen learn,
And haven got rid of a flump and quib he spun this painful yarn.
“Well it twas on the good ship Nancy Bell, we sailed on the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief, which is often occurred to me.
And nigh on all of the crew was drowned there was seventy-seven souls,
But only ten of the Nancy’s men said “Here” to the muster’s role.
There was me and the cook and a captain bold and the Mate of the Nancy Brig,
And a Boatswain tight and a Midship mite and the crew of the Captain’s gig.

Well for fourty days we’ve no viddles or drink, till a hunger we did feel,
So we all drawed lots an according shot the Captain for our meal.
Well the next lot fell to the Nancy’s Mate and a delicate dish he made,
And our appetites on the Midship Mite we seven survivors stayed.
Next we murdered the Boatswain tight and he much resembled pig,
Then we viddled free, did the cook and me, on the crew of the Captain’s gig.
Till only me and cook was left. And the delicate question.
“which of us two goes in the keddle arose,” And we argued it out a sitch
For I loved that cook as a brother I did, and ol Cook he worshiped me,
And we’d each be blowed if we’d either be stowed,
In the other one’s hole, you see?
Says he, “Dear Bob, to murder me is a foolish thing to do.
For don’t you see, you can’t cook me and I can and would cook you.

So he boiled some water, adds some salt and pepper, and other portions true,
And I almost forgot some chopped shallot, and sage and parsley too.
He stirs it round and round and round and sniffs at the foaming broth,
When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth.
Well I ate that old cook in a week or less and as I eaten be,
The last of his chops, well, I almost drops for a vessel in sights I see.
Well I never sing and I never dance and I never laugh and play,
But I always croaks at a singular joke that I have which is to say,
That I am cook and a captain bold and the Mate of the Nancy Brig,
And a Boatswain tight and a Midship mite and the crew of the Captain’s gig.”