"Say! can't any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a jig?" said "Bill" in a muffled tone. "If some one does not start some kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor 'Gangway' says I mustn't sleep out of doors." His speech ended in a fit of coughing and a succession of sneezes.
"Here, 'Morse,' give us that new song of yours," said "Steve," as another oilskinned figure joined the group. "Morse" and "Steve" were our chief song writers. Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the starboard, the other on the port. "I will, if you chaps will join in the chorus," answered "Morse." "No, thank you," he added, as some one handed him an imaginary glass. "_Nature_ has wet my whistle pretty thoroughly to-night." "Stump," in his most impressive manner, stepped forward, and in true master-of-ceremonies style introduced our entertainer. He was enlarging on the undoubted merits of the composer and singer, and had waxed really eloquent, when a strong gust of wind blew the water that lodged in the awning squarely down his neck. This dampened his ardor but not our spirits.
"Morse," like the good fellow he was, got up and sang this song to the tune of "Billy Magee Magaw":
When the "Yankee" goes sailing home again, Hurrah! Hurrah! We'll forget that we're "Heroes" and just be men, Hurrah! Hurrah! The girls will giggle, the boys will shout, We'll all get a bath and be washed out, And we'll all feel gay when The "Yankee" goes sailing home.
The city bells will peal for joy, Hurrah! Hurrah! To welcome home each wandering boy, Hurrah! Hurrah! And all our sisters and cousins and girls Will say "Ain't they darlings?" and "_See_ the pearls!" So we'll all feel gay when The "Yankee" goes sailing home.
Our patrolling cruise will soon be o'er, Hurrah! Hurrah! We'll be happy the moment our feet touch shore, Hurrah! Hurrah! And "Cutlets" and "Hubbub" and all the rest May stick to the calling they're fitted for best, But _we'll_ all feel gay when The "Yankee" goes sailing home.
Even "Bill" was able to find voice enough to shout "Good!" and give "Morse" a resounding slap on his wet oilskinned shoulder. The song voiced our sentiments exactly, and cheered us a lot. None of us believed that "Our patrolling cruise would soon be o'er," however, and hardly a man would have taken his discharge had it been offered to him that moment. We had put our names to the enlistment papers and had promised to serve Uncle Sam on his ship the "Yankee" faithfully. We had gone into this thing together, and we would see it through together. Still we would "All feel gay when the 'Yankee' goes sailing home."