The Bold Buccaneer

One very rough day on the Pride of the Fray     In the scuppers a poor little cabin-boy lay,     When the Bosun drew nigh with wrath in his eye     And gave him a kick to remember him by,     As he cried with a sneer: What good are you here?     Go home to your mammy, my bold buccaneer.     Now the Captain beheld, and his pity upwelled:     With a plug in the peeper the Bosun he felled.     With humility grand he extended his hand     And helped the poor lad, who was weeping, to stand,     As he cried: Have no fear; Im the manager here.     Take heart, and youll yet be a bold buccaneer.     But how he did flare when the lad then and there     Doffed his cap and shook down a gold banner of hair.     Though his movements were shy, hed a laugh in his eye,     And he sank on the Captains broad breast with a sigh,     As he cried: Is it queer that Ive followed you here?     Im your sweetheart from Bristol, my bold buccaneer.     On an isle in the west, by the breezes caressed,     The bold buccaneer has a warm little nest,     And he sits there in state amid pieces of eight     And tackles his rum with a manner elate,     As he cries: O my dear little cabin-boy, here     Is a toast to the babe of the bold buccaneer!