I've seen a good deal of distress,
Lots of Breakers in Ocean's Gazette; They should do as I do-rise o'er all; Ay, a good floating capital get,
Like the Boy at the Nore!
I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart,
And cheers him, in deep water rolling; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore!
Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off
For a week to make love with my wheedles;
If the tight little Boy at the Nore
Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles,
We'd have two at the Nore!
They thinks little of sizes on water,
On big waves the tiny one skulks,—
While the river has Men of War on it-
Yes—the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks
And the Boy's at the Nore!
But I've done for the water is heaving
Round my body, as though it would sink it!
And I've been so long pitching and tossing,
That sea-sick-you'd hardly now think it-
Is the Boy at the Nore!
"The rain it raineth every day."
THE Dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
On ev'ry window-frame hang beaded damps
Like rows of small illumination lamps,
To celebrate the Jubilee of Showers!
A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves,
The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers,
And from the Houses' eaves
Tumble eaves-droppers.
The hundred clerks that live along the street,
Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers,
With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet,
Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like
steamers,
Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend-
Umbrellas pass of every shade of green,
And now and then a crimson one is seen,
Like an Umbrella ripened.
Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking, While in the George and Dragon
The man is keeping himself dry-and drinking! The Butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray, Hats shine-shoes don't-and down droop collars, And one blue Parasol cries all the way
To school, in company with four small scholars!
Unhappy is the man to-day who rides,
Making his journey sloppier, not shorter;
Ay, there they go, a dozen of outsides,
Performing on "a Stage with real water!"
A dripping pauper crawls along the way,
The only real willing out-of-doorer,
And says, or seems to say,
"Well, I am poor enough-but here's a pourer !"
The scene in water colours thus I paint,
Is your own Festival, you Sloppy Saint!
Mother of all the Family of Rainers!
Saint of the Soakers!
Making all people croakers,
Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers!
And why you mizzle forty days together,
Giving the earth your water-soup to sup,
I marvel-Why such wet, mysterious weather?
I wish you'd clear it up!
Why cast such cruel dampers
On pretty Pic Nics, and against all wishes
Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers,
And volunteer, unasked, to wash the dishes?
Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot,
To cling like lady-birds around a tree-
Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea,
By throwing your cold water upon hot?
Cannot a rural maiden, or a man,
Seek Hornsey-Wood by invitation, sipping
Their green with Pan,
But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping!
Why upon snow-white tablecloths and sheets,
That do not wait, or want a second washing,
Come squashing?
Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets,
As if there were no Water-Cart contractors,
No pot-boys spilling beer, no shop-boys ruddy
Spooning out puddles muddy,
Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors!
A Queen you are, raining in your own right,
Yet oh! how little flattered by report!
Even by those that seek the Court,
Pelted with every term of spleen and spite.
Folks rail and swear at you in every place;
They say you are a creature of no bowel;
They say you're always washing Nature's face,
And that you then supply her,
With nothing drier,
Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel! The whole town wants you ducked, just as you
They wish you on your own mud porridge sup
They hope that you may kick your own big
Or in your water-butt go souse! heels up'ard!
They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle,
They'd spill the water in your veins to stop it-
Be warned! You are too partial to a mizzle—
Pray drop it!
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO.
"The Admiral compelled them all to strike."-LIFE OF NELSON.
HUSH! silence in School-not a noise!
You shall soon see there's nothing to jeer at,
Master Marsh, most audacious of boys!
Come!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
So this morn in the midst of the Psalm,
The Miss Siff kins's school you must leer at,
You're complained of—Sir! hold out your palm—
There !—“ Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
You wilful young rebel, and dunce!
This offence all your sins shall appear at,
You shall have a good caning at once-
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
You are backward, you know, in each verb,
And your pronouns you are not more clear at,
But you're forward enough to disturb-
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
You said Master Twigg stole the plums,
When the orchard he never was near at,
I'll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs-
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
You make Master Taylor your butt,
And this morning his face you threw beer at,
And you struck him-do you like a cut?
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
Little Biddle you likewise distress,
You are always his hair, or his ear at,-
He's my Opt, Sir, and you are my
Pess:
There!"Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
Then you had a pitched fight with young Rouse,
An offence I am always severe at !
You discredit to Cicero-House!
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
You have made too a plot in the night,
To run off from the school that you rear at!
Come, your other hand, now, Sir,—the right,
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
I'll teach you to draw, you young dog!
Such pictures as I'm looking here at !
"Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,"
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
You have run up a bill at a shop,
That in paying you'll be a whole year at—
You've but twopence a week, Sir, to stop!
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
Then at dinner you're quite cock-a-hoop,
And the soup you are certain to sneer at-
I have sipped it—it's very good soup
There Palmam qui meruit ferat!"
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