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Later on, in a steel coat and hat,
Your sea-dog and captain were seen ; But, if we wore mail, what of that ?
In that, we were all we've still been ; At Sluys and at Harrleur, we showed,
Howe'er we were rigged by the tailor, Our togs only to him we owed ;
It's the man in 'em that is the sailor.
Then came the great days of Queen Bess,
With their Frobisher, Hawkins and Drake, When we taught the proud Dons to confess,
Ruffs, our courage the less didn't make ; Our breeches were bagged then as much
As Mynheer's by our then Tudor tailor; But we taught the Armada in such,
That the queerest togs don't spoil the sailor.
And when Blake and Dean and stout Monk,
From Van Tromp and De Ruyter won fame. Though buff-coats might hold our salt-junk,
Yet, within 'em, we still were the same; In full-bottomed wigs, next we're found ;
Laced jackets we had from our tailor, But, with Shovel and Rooke, we're renowned,
For the change of togs don't change the sailor.