THE BOSN’S STORY.

THE BOSN’S STORY.
517.1

We was scuddin’ under the Southern Cross off the coast o’ Van Dieman’s Land,
An’ the cook had peppered the skipper’s duft by a slip o’ his starboard hand;
The skipper he swore with a tarrible oath that the cookee’s name was mud,
An he started a s’arch for the luckless Chink, designin’ to drink his blood.

Now the cook he savvied a thing or two. an’ to spile the skipper’s fun
He stowed his pusson all snug away in the hold of the twelve-inch gun;
The skipper ripped and he tore and swore, but the cook had such
That the skipper nor none of the rest of us found never his hide or hair.

Well, all went right till the followin’ night, when a pirate hove in sight,
An’ we limbered up that twelve-inch gun for to give the reptyle fight;
The gunner’s mate he pulled the string, an’ I certainly do declare,
We was some surprised for to see that cook go otroulin’ through the air.

He only let out a yell or two, for as soon as his bullet head
Was druv through the side o’ the pirate ship she shivered an’ sunk like lead:
An’ I wants to state that whatever you learn from the best artillery books,
You can write it down that for deadly shots there is nothin’ like Chinese

cooks.
“Um,” we said. “Anything better?”
“Oh, I think so,” he said, cheerily. “Try this.”
We tried: