Nostalgia "The Old Scuttle-Butt"

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my cruises,
When fond recollection presents them to view.
Not one of those dreams of the fo'c's'le loses
The charm of each spot that my rookie days knew.
The sound of the bugle at reveille routing
The crew from the hammocks which hung neck an' neck;
The din of the mess-gear; the laughing and shouting
Around the old scuttle-butt, there on the deck.

        The old wooden scuttle-butt;
          Iron bound scuttle-butt;
          Cool, dripping scuttle-butt,
          On the gun deck.

The songs that the gang used to sing in the twilight,
Their pipes all a-glowin' with yellow and red,
Just layin' on deck till the last bit o' sky light
Had gone, where the sun was hull-down and abed.
The faces which peered above every tin dipper;
The laughter that rang as we leaned at the brink;
The hails that were cheery, the jokes that were chipper,
The fellowship there, which we quaffed with each drink

        The old wooden scuttle-butt;
          Iron bound scuttle-butt;
          Cool, dripping scuttle-butt,
          On the gun deck.