"The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us car'd for Kate; For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor Go hang! She lov'd not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch. Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang! This is a scurvy tune too; but here's my comfort. [Drinks]"