{"character_count": 1349, "word_count": 252, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9417999982833862], "ccnet_perplexity": [2009.9000244140625], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
"Iiufran now bill opurey, suppose you Up LIS {. stave. But say, Babette, you Dutch-bult galiot, tell old Frank Sush to send us another dose of the stuff; and, dye hear short pipe for me- and paper O baccy."

 The short fat Babete, whose proportions all the ex- ercse of waiting upon the customers could not reduce, knew quite enough of English to reaulre further ex- plantations.

 "Come, Jemmy, my hearty, take your fingers off your fiddle, and hand i'll your pot" continued Cobe, "and then if they are not going to dance, we'll have another song. Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat. Here's more baccy, Short"

 Short made reply but he shook out the ashes and filled his pipe. The music did not strike up again, so Bill Spurey sang follows Says the parson day, as cursed a Jew,

 Do you knowi my lad that we call 1t a sin! fear of you sailors there are but few, St. Peter to Heaven will ever let in. Says |, Mr. Parson, to tell you my mind, so sailors to knock were ever yet seen, Those who travel by land may steer against wind,

 But We shape course for Fidler's Green ETof fuiers Green, where seamen true,

 When here they 'Ve done their duty, {. The bowl of grog shall still renew, And pledge to love and beauty saya the Iarsois hear you've married three wiYea

 Npzs do son not know that tirls s sin. 