Note: This is the version of the text I use in recitation (I learned it, quite literally, at my father's knee). For W. S. Gilbert's original "Yarn of the Nancy Bell", see Project Gutenberg's transcription of the Bab Ballads.
’Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to
Ramsgate span,
That I met alone on a piece of stone
An elderly
naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was
he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular
minor key:
“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the
Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tite, and a midshipmite,
And
the crew of the captain’s gig.”
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt
afraid,
For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,
And
so I simply said:
“Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know
Of the duties
of men of the sea,
But I’ll eat my hand if I understand
However
you can be
“At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the
Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tite, and a midshipmite,
And
the crew of the captain’s gig.”
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen
larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this
painful yarn:
“’Twas on the good ship Nancy Bell
That we
sailed the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which
has often occurred to me.
“And mighty nigh all the crew was drowned
(Seventy-seven
o’ soul),
And only ten of the Nancy’s men
Said
‘Here!’ to the muster-roll.
“There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the
mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo’sun tite, and
the midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain’s gig.
“Well, we went on thus for a month or so,
Till
a-hungry we did feel,
So we drew our lot, and, accordin’
shot
The captain for our meal.
“And then we dined off the Nancy’s mate,
And
a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We
seven survivors stayed.
“And then we murdered the bo’sun tite,
And he much
resembled pig;
Then we whittled free, did the cook and me,
On
the crew of the captain’s gig.
“Then only me and the cook was left,
And the delicate
question, ‘Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?’ arose,
And
we argied it out as sich.
“For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And that cook
he worshipped me;
But we’d both be blowed if we’d either
be stowed
In the other chap’s hold, you see.
“‘I’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ says
Tom;
And ‘That‘, says I, ‘you’ll be.’
‘I’m
boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I;
And ‘Exactly
so,’ quoth he.
“Says he, ‘Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish
thing to do,
For don’t you see, you can’t cook
me,
While I can — and will — cook you!’
“So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper
in portions true;
Some chopped shallot, which he never forgot,
Some sage and parsley too.
“‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride,
Which
his smiling features tell,
‘’T will soothing be if
I let you see
How extremely nice you’ll smell.’
“And he stirs it round and round and round,
And he sniffs
at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and I smothers his
squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
“And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And as I
eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For
a wessel in sight I see!
* * * *
“Now I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark
nor play,
But sit and croak a single joke
I have — which
is to say:
“‘Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the
Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tite, and a midshipmite,
And
the crew of the captain’s gig!’”