by Wallace Irwin They were twenty men on the ‘Cabbage Rose’ As she sailed from the Marmaduke Piers For I counted ten on me fingers and toes And ten on me wrists and ears. As gallant as skipper as ever skipped Or sailors as ever sailed As valiant trippers as ever tripped Or tailors as ever tailed. What has become of the ‘Cabbage Rose’ That steered for the oping sea And what has become of them and those That went for a trip in she? Oh, a maiden she stood on the brown wharf’s end A-watching the distant sail And she says with a sigh to her elderly friend “I’m trimming my hat with a veil.” A roundsman says to a little Jack Tar “I orfentimes wonder if we - “ And the Jackey replied as he bit his cigar “Aye, aye, me hearty,” says he. And a beggar was setting on Marmaduke Piers Collecting of nickels and dimes And a large stout party on Marmaduke Piers Was a-reading the Morning Times. Little they thought of the ‘Cabbage Rose’ And the whirl-i-cane gusts a-wait With the polly-wows to muzzle her bows And bear her down to her fate. But the milliner’s lad by the outer rim He says to hisself, “No hope!” And the little brown dog as belonged to him Sat chewing a yard of rope. And a pale old fisherman beat his breast As he gazed far out on the blue For the nor’east wind it was blowing west Which it hadn’t no right to do. But what has become of the ‘Cabbage Rose’ And her capting, Ezra Flower? Dumd if I cares and dumd if I knows She’s only been gone an hour.
The end