They were still laughing.
Then one or two of those nearest to us put up their hands to get
silence. Sambo's fiddle was singing (as only voices and fiddles can
sing) a melody to which the heads and toes of the company soon began to
nod and beat:
"La, l[)e] l[=a] la la, la la la, l[=a] l[)e] la, la
L[=a], le l[=a] la la, la la la, la--l[)e] la la,"
hummed the boatswain. "Lor' bless me, Mr. O'Moore, I heard that afore
you were born, though I'm blessed if I know where. But it's a genteel
pretty thing!"
"It's all about roses and nightingales!" shouted Dennis, with comical
grimaces.
"Hear! hear!" answered the oldest and hairiest-looking of the sailors,
and the echoes of his approbation only died away to let the song begin.
Then the notes of Sambo's fiddle also dropped off, and I heard Dennis
O'Moore's beautiful voice for the first time as he gave his head one
desperate toss and began:
"There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the night long.
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