The man with the fighting cock on his shirt was a Union green-carder who did not wish to cross the picket lines.
The dreadlocked guitarist played a solo.
Ers stratted‡ ter th' huxens§! Eh! come an' lack vor yersel, she screamed in a voice made inarticulate by her shrill and immodest laughter, as the unfortunate man waded at last out of the black water, and stood gazing dolefully at his dirty stockings and shoes.
Ers stratted‡ ter th' huxens§! Eh! come an' lack vor yersel,
To wind'ard! To wind'ard! It was a long, long cry that stayed with us through many days and many nights. To wind'ard! To wind'ard!
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