Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,

And drinks his can of grog

and swabs the like : Walls-end Go Pote danger, and War

Go patter to lubbers and swabs do you see,

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; . But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall's-end

give me ;
And it ain't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth

shall down smite, And shiver each bundle of wood; Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow every

thing tight,
And boiling a gallop we'll scud.

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,

By shovel, tongs, and poker, stand ; Down the scuttle quick be hauling,

Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand.
Now it freshens — blow like blazes ;

Now unto the coal-hole go ;
Stir, boys, stir, don't mind black faces,

Up your ashes nimbly throw.

Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,

See the valve is clear of course ;
Let the paddles spin, don't mind, boys,

Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,

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 !


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

"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.

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?




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.

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