Sixteen stone
Of beef and bone,
Sort o' beggar to hold his own
With a foc's'le full of fighting drunks
And haul and hustle 'em out of their bunks.

Made of spunyarn and Stockholm tar,
The same as all good bosuns are:
Can't read, can't write,
But he can holler and he can fight,
And swear - why, no one can come near him!
I tell you it's a treat to hear him!
He can cuss in Spanish and Portugee,
Eye-taliano, Chinook, Chinee,
A dash of Yank and a smatter of Greek,
And as many besides as there's days in the week,
And keep it up from the Nore to Dover,
And never use a word twice over!