MRS. F. Great bags of stones! they're pretty things to help a boat to swim! BOATMAN. The wind is fresh-if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault! MRS. F. Wind fresh, indeed! I never felt the air so full of salt! BOATMAN. That Schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts! MRS. F. If seas have roads, they're very rough-I never felt such ruts! BOATMAN. It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. MRS. F. The bar what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are! BOATMAN. Ho! brig ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lubber cannot steer! MRS. F. Yes, yes,-hard up upon a rock! I know some danger 's near! BOATMAN. Nothing, Ma'am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full! MRS. F. What, keep her full! what daring work! when full, she must go down! BOATMAN. Why, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit—it's coming off the town! MRS. F. Be steady-well, I hope they can! but they've got a pint of drink! BOATMAN. Bill, give that sheet another haul-she'll fetch it up this reach. I'm getting rather pale, I know, MRS. F. and they see it by that speech! 10 20 BOATMAN. Bill, mind your luff-why Bill, I say, she 's yawing-keep her near ! MRS. F. Keep near! we're going further off; the land 's behind our backs. BOATMAN. Be easy, Ma'am, it's all correct, that 's only 'cause we tacks: MRS. F. Beat who about? keep who at sea?-how black they look at me! BOATMAN. It's veering round-I knew it would! off with her head! stand by! MRS. F. 29 Off with her head! whose? where? what with ?-an axe I seem to spy! BOATMAN. She can't not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in! MRS. F. They'll drown me, and take all I have! my life 's not worth a pin! BOATMAN. Look out you know, be ready, Bill-just when she takes the sand! MRS. F. The sand-O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is plann’d! BOATMAN. The handspike, Bill-quick, bear a hand! now Ma'am, just step ashore ! MRS. F. What ain't I going to be kill'd-and welter'd in my gore? LITERARY AND LITERAL THE March of Mind upon its mighty stilts, In travelling through Berks, Beds, Notts, and Wilts, Got up a thing our ancestors ne'er thought on, A thing that, only in our proper youth, We should have chuckled at-in sober truth. A Conversazione at Hog's Norton ! A place whose native dialect, somehow, Conceive the snoring of a greedy swine, O Colman! Kenny! Planché! Poole! Peake ! O Grey! Peel! Sadler! Wilberforce! Burdett! Think of your prose and verse, and worse-delivered in The founder of Hog's Norton Athenæum With some variety From Mr. Roscoe's Liverpool museum; It chanced one Friday, One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, . With literary tastes-so far from suiting 'em, Or Lalla-Rookh, he always was for shooting 'em! With him great Bacon Was literally taken, And Hogg-the Poet-nothing but a Hog! As to all others on the list of Fame, Although they were discuss'd and mention'd daily, He only recognised one classic name, And thought that she had hung herself-Miss Baillie ! To balance this, our Farmer's only daughter The more she dipped and dabbled in the Lakes. 10 20 30 40 50 The secret truth is, Hope, the old deceiver, Of learning's laurels-Miss Joanna Baillie- She thought the world would quite enraptur'd see 'LOVE LAYS AND LYRICS BY A. P. I. G.' Accordingly, with very great propriety, That is,-Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society; Her pork and poetry towards the mess. This feast, we said, one Friday was the case, With pig-wigs ! The swine-poor wretch !-with nobody to speak for it, So-like the fabled swan-died singing out, And, thus, there issued from the farmer's yard An invitation to the evening rout. And when the time came duly,' At the close of Bacon, and pork were ready to dispose of, And pettitoes and chit'lings too, to cram,- All in appropriate and swinish dresses, Although the Muse might fairly jest upon it, They came-each Pig-faced Lady,' in that bonnet The Members all assembled thus, a rare woman She always named the authoress of 'Psyche '— And now arose a question of some moment,— Bacon or Hogg? there were no votes for Beaumont, While others, with a more sagacious reasoning, Proposed another work, And thought their pork Would prove more relishing from Thomson's Season-ing! But, practised in Shakspearian readings daily,— O! Miss Macaulay! Shakspeare at Hog's Norton !— Selected him that evening to snort on. In short, to make our story not a big tale, Her talents, and converting The Winter's Tale to something like a pig-tale! 100 110 All sitting round, with grave and learned faces, 120 Of course, and clapped her at the proper places; There is no travelling through life but still With that peculiar voice Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and noses, Imagine this Uprose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, Grunting this question for the club's digestion, 'Do Dis's Waggon go from the Ould Bäaley? 130 |