Work Text:
Once upon an evening cheery, while I listened to my deary
Pondering great and small injustices of being cast ashore
While my hand was gently clapping on my thigh, there came a rapping
Of my foot so sweetly tapping, tapping on the chamber floor.
'Tis so wonderful,' I pondered, 'to tap on the chamber floor.'
Then I thought of how to score.
On a chair of plush vermillion sitting next a pale civilian
In my mind there came a million ways to rake her aft and fore.
Hornily I wished close action; - but for now just sought distraction,
In the harp a new attraction – flexion to the tuneful score -
To the fine and dulcet playing of the Boccherini score -
Unlike any heretofore.
And the siren sweet and startling plucking of each tender harp string
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic tremors never felt before;
So that man, to still the beating of my leg now stood entreating
`Could your foot please stop its beating rhythm on the chamber floor?
That damned foot please stop its beating rhythm on the chamber floor, -
(Or on time and not before.)'
Presently my soul grew nettled; hesitating and unsettled,
`Sir,' said I, `your servant, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was clapping, and so gentle was my rapping,
And so quiet was my tapping, tapping on the chamber floor,
That I never deemed you heard me. Sorry, sir, to be a bore.'
He just glared, and nothing more.
Glancing at that hateful creature, seeing every ageless feature
Poking, palest pale from poorest wig that e'er was seen before,
Till the silence now was broken, and the harp it gave a token
And my former passion woken for the Boccherini score.
Thus I settled, and an fiddle drew me back into the score
Somewhat sadder than before.
Back to lovely Molly turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I had to force my tapping not to happen anymore.
`Surely,' thought I, `surely it is nothing that so cruel unfit is
And my very mother wit is saying: "Nothing to deplore!"
Let him stop his vile complaining, there is nothing to deplore.
'Tis man's nature, nothing more.'
Sharp now here there came a poking, and a hissing voice was croaking
And I found that in my study I had let my right hand soar.
Chasing notes so rich and stately; quite without my knowing raised he
But so danced and turned and traced he patterns from the tuneful score,
Bobbed along with variations made within the tuneful score.
'That now, sir, was uncalled for.'
Then this bachelor's son unsmiling flamed my temper into riling
By the grave and steely censure of the countenance he wore,
But the tune played on and onward, rising till the climax thundered
Booming bass and descant blundered undiscerning of our war -
Winding up and on unheeding of our own clandestine war.
Sighed I sadly: 'Lee and shore.'
Glum and gloomy the regression of my thoughts into depression
Thoughts of scavengers and debtors – which have marked my life on shore.
It was so I sat and brooded while the cello now concluded
And the silence that ensued it turned into a ringing roar –
Molly's gaze above the grateful crowd which made the ringing roar.
Winced I inward: 'Lee and shore.'
Now the pallid man was rising and my choler quick disguising
For the shove and for the grief that he had caused to my amour,
My own lodgings then I stated – thinking now the duel fated –
But he just retaliated, saying 'Sir, I'm right next door.
On the morrow will I breakfast at the coffee house next door.'
And I, baffled, said no more.
Rather had I some chair broken on his head for having spoken
With that graceless and insulting low expression that he wore,
But my rage must I now master and I would not dare to cast a
Sombre shade of some disaster on the fête of my amour.
With a surge of purest pleasure cried I to my sweet amour:
'Dear, my dearest , oh encore!'
But on seeing that my smiling all but lost its charm beguiling
Straight I went my wonted way back to the Crown's half-open door,
Then, upon my mattress sinking, I betook myself to thinking
What had cowed me into shrinking from this vile son of a whore –
How this base, abhorrent, beastly man, this vile son of a whore
Tossed me on a leeward shore.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but soon found my thoughts digressing
To the kind of life a seaman lived if life was lived on shore;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But which velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
I took comfort in no more.
Then, methought, I heard a shrieking, when into my chamber sneaking
Bounced my Mercedes whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Letter!' cried she, 'I have brought him, for teniente I have sought him.
Poor teniente, I'd have thought him happy I such letters bore.
Look, oh look, my kind teniente, at this letter that I bore.'
Yelled I madly, 'Oh what for?'
'Mercy,' cried I, 'such a letter only comes from being debtor;
Or perchance from Whitehall saying "Sorry, chap, you stay ashore.
There's no call for a lieutenant and until you hoist your pennant
Blue at mizzen, white or yellow – you will soundly be ______ed o'er."
Is there any time, my Mercy, when they do not _____ me o'er?'
Quoth that maiden, 'Evermore.'
But before the seal was broken on that blighted black-sealed token
Fell my eye upon the address which the lamp-light gloated o'er
'Captain Aubrey, Royal Navy' read a script so round and wavy
In a hand I don't remember ever having seen before;
Neither hand nor lofty title had I ever seen before.
'Fools,' I sighed, 'those commodores.'
'My good sir,' the letter quoted, 'you have hereby been promoted
By Lord Keith, KB, RN, (and blah blah yadda yadda snore)!
You forthwith are now required to kick ass of any pirate
Or of any foe who'd fire at England's finest in this war;
You'll command the sweet sloop Sophie and kick ass in this here war.
Now go forth and ply thy oar!'
Keen delight welled up inside me, for a while was so beside me
That I little more could do than read this letter o'er and o'er.
'Mercy, plumpest peach, how hollow joy does make a man. A pollo!
Vino, too! Some wine to follow! Toast it to the commodore.
Toast it in the kindest fashion to the dear old commodore.
Blest he be forevermore!'
From a deep, deep sleep awaking, all my soul within me aching,
Breaking, shaking with the effort not just yet to go aboard,
Set I out across the street for that one worthy soul to meet
Who'd pin my shoulder with the symbol of the present rank I bore:
Th' epaulette which was the symbol of the present rank I bore!
Then I left the tailor's store.
Dearest reader, now imagine what a shock and apprehension
Then to chance without intention 'pon the man I met before.
'Mr Maturin,' I hallooed him and with outstretched hand pursued him,
'Pray might I for yesterevening your forgiveness still implore?
For my clapping, rapping, tapping your forgiveness still implore?'
Quoth that fellow, 'Oh why sure!'
'Point of fact, might I propose you, if it does not indispose you,
Join me for a chocolate or a coffee?' – nodding at that door.
'Gladly, sir, 't would be a pleasure. In my haste I've not had leisure,'
Said I, glancing hints at symbol of the present rank I bore.
'To be sure a noble trinket,' said he of the swab I bore,
'But should there not be one more?'
---
Thus it was the books have started and from thereon have departed
To each sea that has been charted and each prelapsarian shore,
To a life for King and Duty, oaken hearts, pursuit of beauty,
Knowledge, glory and adventure, but with friendship at its core.
And this love so true and holy, this pure friendship at its core
Will die never-nevermore.