The Crown's Bloody Hounds (2) sea shanty slipjig

Yo-ho, haul it up — colours to the mast! Heave-ho, ye gutter rats — we’re bastards to the last! The Pelican’s gone бегgin’, now the Golden Hind’s our ride, Gold sticks close to spilt-out blood — we’ve seen it side by side, Till crabs pick clean the ribs o’ fools and barnacles take hold, And all yer pretty plunder rots to muck the same as gold. Oi, lads! Starboard there — a fat-bellied little prize! She’s beggin’ for a raidin’, boys — I see it in her eyes! Who’s sober? Who can stand? Then grab a blade an’ lead! Let luck decide who swings up high — and who the sharks get fed! A cutthroat sniffin’ after loot — the Queen’s own bloody hound, Old Francis Drake, the devil’s name that made the dons turn ‘round, He smashed the Spanish bastards’ fleet — no tavern tale or jest, He carved his name in cannon smoke an’ never gave ‘em rest. Oi, lads! Starboard there — a fat-bellied little prize! She’s beggin’ for a raidin’, boys — I see it in her eyes! Who’s sober? Who can stand? Then grab a blade an’ lead! Let luck decide who swings up high — and who the sharks get fed! Two million quid an’ then some more to lick the crown’s damn boots, But gold an’ rank mean bugger-all when lead comes tearin’ through, The bastard who once ruled the waves, the wide an’ wicked sea, Now sleeps with all the drowned-out dogs in black eternity. So choose, ye swine — what end d’ye take when all yer luck runs dry? A rope that snaps yer neck up high beneath the open sky? Or sinkin’ down where no light crawls an’...