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WHAT LUBBERS THEY'RE ON SHORE.
What lubbers they're on shore, nowówhy,
When I was there, a tailor Says to me, " Who'd to sea ? not T ;
Oh, who would be a sailor ? " Poor thing! his face was white as foam ;
His arm, a stick to Nancy's ; Says I, " You're one best left at home
To croak your milksop fancies ; And yet a cruise would put some red,
Even into you, you tailor ; 'Twould blow those whimsies from your head,
Your pity for a sailor."
" Yes, snip, we face the storm ; what then ?
We dread it ? there's your error; The seas we sail, they make us men
That cannot feel your terror;