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Oil the engines, see all clear;
Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer;
Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes the paddles splash.
One wide water all around us,

All above one smoke-black sky:
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry.

The funnel's gone! cries every tongue out,
The engineer's washed off the deck;
A leak beneath the coal-hole's sprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,
Four feet water getting cold.

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there's no retreating;
Alas! to them there's no return.

The fire is out- we've burst the bellows,
The tinder-box is swamped below;
Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,
For only that can serve us now !

A LAY OF REAL LIFE.

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

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"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones.” SILVERSMITH.

WHO ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,

And physicked me and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,

And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,

Till all my bones came through my skin,

Then called me "ugly little sin?”

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk

And took me home and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,

Till many a bitter bang I bore?

My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,

And when I played cried "What a noise!” Girls always hector over boys

My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

My Brother.

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Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad,"
And gave me sixpence, "all he had;
But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy — my sole relief?

Myself.

A VALENTINE.

THE WEATHER TO P. MURPHY,* ESQ., M.N.S.

These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action.

DEAR Murphy, to improve her charms,

Your servant humbly begs;

She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.

* An Almanac-maker.

Moreover, as you promise folks,

On certain days a drizzle;

She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to mizzle.

Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot "fork it out,"
She'll wish to make a bolt!

POEM FROM THE POLISH.

Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following

verses.

FROM Seventy-two north latitude,
Dear Kitty, I indite;

But first I'd have you understand

How hard it is to write.

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Of thoughts that breathe and words that

My Kitty, do not think,

Before I wrote these very lines,

I had to melt my ink.

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