Antiphilus of Byzantium

Give me a mat on the deck,
When the awnings sound to the blows of the spray,
And the hearthstones crack with the flames a-back
And the pot goes bubbling away.
Give me a boy to cook my broth;
For table a ship’s plank lacking a cloth,
And never a fork or knife;
And, after a game with a rusty pack,
The bo’sun’s whistle to pipe us back—
That’s the fortune fit for a king,
For Oh! I love common life!