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For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,
Large or small I am never to sack bird,

Not a thrush is so kind

As to fly, and I find
I may whistle myself for a black-bird !

I am angry, I'm hungry, I’m dry,
Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,

And so weary an elf,

I am sick of myself,
And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's,
And look out for a cock or a hen there;

I have searched round and round

All the Baronet's ground,
But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there !

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,
But for nightcaps they set me desiring,

And it's really too bad,

Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder, renowned for a quick firing.”

If this is what people call sport,
Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense,

And there still remains one

More mischance on my gun " Fined for shooting without any license.”

THE BOY AT THE NORE.

«« Alone I did it! – Boy!” — CORIOLANUS.

I say, little Boy at the Nore,

Do you come from the small Isle of Man ? Why, your history a mystery must be,Come tell us as much as you can,

Little Boy at the Nore !

You live it seems wholly on water,

Which your Gambier calls living in clover ;But how comes it, if that is the case, You ’re eternally half seas over,

Little Boy at the Nore?

While you ride — while you dance — while you

float Never mind your imperfect orthography; — But give us as well as you can, Your watery auto-biography,

Little Boy at the Nore!

LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR. I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore,

In a sort of sea negus I dwells ;

Half and half 'twixt salt water and Port,
I’m reckoned the first of the swells -

I'm the Boy at the Nore!

I lives with my toes to the flounders,

And watches through long days and nights ; Yet, cruelly eager, men look — To catch the first glimpse of my lights —

I'm the Boy at the Nore.

I never gets cold in the head,

So my life on salt water is sweet I think I owes much of my health, To being well used to wet feet —

As the Boy at the Nore.

There's one thing, I'm never in debt:

Nay! - I liquidates more than I oughter ; * So the man to beat Cits as goes by, In keeping the head above water,

Is the Boy at the Nore.

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 !

* A word caught from some American Trader in passing. 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!

ODE TO ST. SWITHIN.

“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.

Over the way a wagon Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blink

ing,

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