Some plunder large, some pilfer small,
Some takes it straight, some on the bend:
The same remark doth fit ’em all—
Of buccaneering there’s no end.
I seen a man I much admired
Ranging the seas of all the world,
Intent to take what he required,
Where’er the Bloody Flag’s unfurled.
He’s laid East Indiamen aboard
And King’s ships too, and—what seems odd—
From pillaging a fairy hoard
He turned to fill his hold with cod.
He’s Admiral o’ Buccaneers,
Chief o’ th’ trade that never slacks!
And borrel men like we, I fears,
May carry on till canvas cracks—
May steal the title—filch the stuff—
His tops’ls still is all we see:
The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough.
But there! You hearken unto me:—
Let him that stole now steal no more:
That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ.
Why, if you’ve wared your little store
And so don’t need no more of it,
You quit the trade—but not till then.
Or, not until the Picaroon
What only steals the life o’ men
Beats up alongside, late or soon.
Some plunder large, some pilfer small,
Some takes it straight, some on the bend:
The same remark doth fit ’em all—
Of buccaneering there’s no end.