This here's what I does—I, d'ye see, forms a notion

This here's what I does—I, d'ye see, forms a notion
That our troubles, our sorrows, and strife,
Are the winds and the billows that foment the ocean,
As we work through the passage of life;
And for fear on life's sea lest the vessel should founder,
To lament, and to weep, and to wail,
Is a pop gun that tries to out roar a nine pounder,
All the same as a whiff in a gale.
Why now I, though hard fortune has pretty near starv'd me,
And my togs are all ragged and queer,
Ne'er yet gave the bag to the friend that had serv'd me,
Or caus'd ruin'd beauty a tear.

Now there tother day, when my messmate deceiv'd me,
Stole my rhino, my chest, and our Poll,
Do you think in revenge, while their treachery griev'd me,
I a court martial call'd?—not at all.
This here on the matter was my way of arg'ing,
'Tis true they han't left me a cross,
A vile wife and false friend though are gone by the bargain,
So the gain d'ye see's more than the loss.
For though fortune's a jilt, and has, &c.

The heart's all—when that's built as it should, sound and clever,
We go 'fore the wind like a fly,
But, if rotten and crank, you may luff up for ever,
You'll always sail in the wind's eye.
With palaver and nonsense I'm not to be paid off,
I'm adrift, let it blow then great guns,
A gale, a fresh breeze, or the old gemman's head off,
I takes life rough and smooth as it runs:
Content, though hard fortune, &c.