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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 ;
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
Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker, stand ; Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand.
Now unto the coal-hole go ;
Up your ashes nimbly throw.
Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,
See the valve is clear of course ;
Though the weather should be worse.
Oil the engines, see all clear ; Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer;
Peal on peal contending clash ;
In our eyes the paddles splash.
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! to them there's no return.
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.
"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones." — SILVERSMITH.
Who ruined me ere I was born,
Who said my mother was no nurse,
Who left me in my seventh year,
Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Who said my mother was a Turk
Who “ of all earthly things” would boast,
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
Who took me home when mother died,
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
Who used to share in what was mine,
Who stroked my head, and said " Good lad,”
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
Through all this weary world, in brief,
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 ;
But wants a brace of legs.
* An Almanac-maker.