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CHAPTER 40 . Midnight , Forecastle . HARPOONEERS AND SAILORS . ( Foresail rises and discovers the watch standing , lounging , leaning , and lying in various attitudes , all singing in chorus . ) Farewell and adieu to you , Spanish ladies ! Farewell and adieu to you , ladies of Spain ! Our captain’s commanded . — 1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR . Oh , boys , don’t be sentimental ; it’s bad for the digestion ! Take a tonic , follow me ! ( Sings , and all follow . ) Our captain stood upon the deck , A spy - glass in his hand , A viewing of those gallant whales That blew at every strand . Oh , your tubs in your boats , my boys , And by your braces stand , And we’ll have one of those fine whales , Hand , boys , over hand ! So , be cheery , my lads ! may your hearts never fail ! While the bold harpooner is striking the whale ! MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER - DECK . Eight bells there , forward ! 2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR . Avast the chorus ! Eight bells there ! d’ye hear , bell - boy ? Strike the bell eight , thou Pip ! thou blackling ! and let me call the watch . I’ve the sort of mouth for that — the hogshead mouth . So , so , ( thrusts his head down the scuttle , ) Star - bo - l - e - e - n - s , a - h - o - y ! Eight bells there below ! Tumble up ! DUTCH SAILOR . Grand snoozing to - night , maty ; fat night for that . I mark this in our old Mogul’s wine ; it’s quite as deadening to some as filliping to others . We sing ; they sleep — aye , lie down there , like ground - tier butts . At ’ em again ! There , take this copper - pump , and hail ’ em through it . Tell ’ em to avast dreaming of their lasses . Tell ’ em it’s the resurrection ; they must kiss their last , and come to judgment . That’s the way — that’s it ; thy throat ain’t spoiled with eating Amsterdam butter . FRENCH SAILOR . Hist , boys ! let’s have a jig or two before we ride to anchor in Blanket Bay . What say ye ? There comes the other watch . Stand by all legs ! Pip ! little Pip ! hurrah with your tambourine ! PIP . ( Sulky and sleepy . ) Don’t know where it is . FRENCH SAILOR . Beat thy belly , then , and wag thy ears . Jig it , men , I say ; merry’s the word ; hurrah ! Damn me , won’t you dance ? Form , now , Indian - file , and gallop into the double - shuffle ? Throw yourselves ! Legs ! legs ! ICELAND SAILOR . I don’t like your floor , maty ; it’s too springy to my taste . I’m used to ice - floors . I’m sorry to throw cold water on the subject ; but excuse me . MALTESE SAILOR . Me too ; where’s your girls ? Who but a fool would take his left hand by his right , and say to himself , how d’ye do ? Partners ! I must have partners ! SICILIAN SAILOR . Aye ; girls and a green ! — then I’ll hop with ye ; yea , turn grasshopper !
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