SparkNotes

What have we here? A man or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish. He smells like a fish, a very ancient and fish-like smell, a kind of not-of-the-newest poor-john. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man. Any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man and his fins like arms! Warm, o' my troth. I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander that hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt.

Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine. There is no other shelter hereabouts. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.

(crawls under gaberdine)

(sings)

 I shall no more to sea, to sea,

 Here shall I die ashore—

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral.

Well, here’s my comfort. (drinks, sings)

 The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,

 The gunner and his mate

 Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,

 But none of us cared for Kate.

 For she had a tongue with a tang,