- end_line
- 615
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:50.352Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 583
- text
- Call the roll to-day, would he answer—_Here!_
When the _Blixum’s_ fellows to quarters mustered
How he’d lurch along the lane of gun-crews clustered,
Testy as touchwood, to pry and to peer.
Jerking his sword underneath larboard arm,
He ground his worn grinders to keep himself calm.
Composed in his nerves, from the fidgets set free,
Tell, Sweet Wrinkles, alive now is he,
In Paradise a parlor where the even tempers be?
Where’s Commander All-a-Tanto?
Where’s Orlop Bob singing up from below?
Where’s Rhyming Ned? has he spun his last canto?
Where’s Jewsharp Jim? Where’s Ringadoon Joe?
Ah, for the music over and done,
The band all dismissed save the droned trombone!
Where’s Glenn o’ the gun-room, who loved Hot-Scotch—
Glen, prompt and cool in a perilous watch?
Where’s flaxen-haired Phil? a gray lieutenant?
Or rubicund, flying a dignified pennant?
But where sleeps his brother?—the cruise it was o’er,
But ah, for death’s grip that welcomed him ashore!
Where’s Sid, the cadet, so frank in his brag,
Whose toast was audacious—“_Here’s Sid, and Sid’s flag!_”
Like holiday-craft that have sunk unknown,
May a lark of a lad go lonely down?
Who takes the census under the sea?
Can others like old ensigns be,
Bunting I hoisted to flutter at the gaff—
Rags in end that once were flags
Gallant streaming from the staff?
- title
- Chunk 3