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TO THE MARQUESAS ISLANDS.
We'd been boxing about some six months in the old
tub we'd learned to hate well, Roll and dip went our rusty brown whaler, plunging
through the Pacific's long swell, We'd not a scrap left of fresh prog ; every bit of a green
thing was eat; Sweet potatoes, bananas, yams, all, their taste we'd
long learned to forget; Just one old cock was left in the hen-coop for the
skipper, the toughest and last, And we felt till that rooster he'd swallowed, our anchor
we never should cast ; How we wished the neck wrung of that red-comb, as
we drove on, our look-out but sky And sea, just as if never more a green shore-line would
rise to our eye ; |
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