Farewell!-lest you may be in want of a black, I leave with you Friday's old governor, Jack." The vile mutineers Are affected to tears By this tender appeal to their feelings and fears. We may easily guess What deep thanks they express; We may easily feel that they could n't do lessAt this noblest of offers; Not merely his coffers, His silver and gold, but the whole of his land- In one feeling, of course, they must all be unanimous, Their silent distress, His foot in Great Britain, his liberty gets; Which induces him quickly to alter his track, And steer for some port, Of West-Indian resort, When, having sold Friday, once more he sets sail And arrives at Spithead with a prosperous gale, Just twenty-five years and one month from the day That he set sail from Hull, to his parents' dismay. Once more settled down, Mr. Robinson spends For his father is dead, to his very great grief, Of critics, must always be relished by youth On the profits of these, His vote for the town, and whatever small trifle He chanced from the sailors' strong-boxes to rifle; Not forgetting the sum He received for his chum The excellent Friday. And thus free from strife, Without children or wife, He At leaving their friends in so precious a mess,— passes serenely the eve of a life, Which with so much adventure and peril was rife. |