THE sea, the sea, the open sea,
The blue, the fresh, the ever free :
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide region round :
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea,

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go.

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
Where every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft its tempest tune :
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west wind doth blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest-
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcom'd to life the ocean child.
I have lived since then in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover's life,

With wealth to spend, and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

B. W. PROCTER.

THE CAM, THE CAM.

THE Cam! the Cam! the dirty Cam !
The green, the brown, the black, the blue!
Of every shade, of every hue,

It runneth the list of colours through!
It plays with the sedge, it stagnant crawls,
Or like an o'erfilled kennel brawls.
I'm on the Cam! I'm on the Cam!
Where I never again will be, I am ;

With the blue above, and the mud below,
And weeds are wheresoe'er I go-

From The Individual. November 29, 1836. Cambridge: W. H. Smith.

THE PIPE.

THE pipe, the pipe, the German pipe!

The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe!

Its odorous puffs without a sound,

They float my head's wide regions round;
They rise in clouds and mock the skies,
While Backy snugly cradled lies.

My hookha wide! my hookha deep!
I've that which I would ever keep;
With the smoke above, and smoke below,
And smoke wheresoe'er I go.

If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring
What matters that? I'll smoke and sing.
What matters, &c.

I love-oh! how I love to smoke,
And drink full bumpers of th' foaming soak !
And when its waves have drowned my soul,
I'll whistle aloud such a "Tol-de-rol!'
Don't ask me where the world is going,
Nor why the sou'-west blast is blowing.

I never breathed the dull tame air,
But I relished my great pipe mair and mair,
And back again flew for a soothing puff,
Like a bird-I'm sure that's quick enough.
My mother it is, and I'll prove it to ye,
(Much more of a mother than the open sea!)
For smoking, I am at it ever and ever!

I hope your comment on this line is "clever!"

For fear of growing at all lackadaisical

I hasten to lay down my pen parody-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat 'Bout "birth" and "death," which things I can't come I've only one word, and that's to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I've been so hard on. From The Individual. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.

THE GIN, THE GIN!

THE gin! the gin! Hodge's Cordial Gin! It fairly makes our heads to spin ; It gives us marks, and without bound, It turneth our head completely round; It plays with our eyes, it mocks our brain,

And sends us rolling in the drain.

I love the gin! I love the gin!
And in a butt of it I could swim,
Or ever live among butts below,

For the juniper's taste so well I know;

If a drunken storm should rise, and a row begin, What matter? We'll settle it all with Gin.

I love, I love-oh, how I love to bide,
With a flowing gin-cask by my side;
Where every quartern gives relief,
We whistle a stave, and drown all grief;
And when our browns to the host we show,
The gin-cock then will merrily flow.

I never tasted watery swipes,

But I always found they gave me the gripes ;
So back I flew to my favourite juice,
Until my sorrows were all reduced.

No three-outs I'll have, but my whack to the brim.
For when I was born my mother gave me gin.

The gin it flow'd the glasses to adorn,
On the drunken hour when I was born;
The nurse she sang, but I did scream,
My mother called out for valley's cream ;
And never was known such a drunken crush,
As welcomed to life this child of lush!
I've lived since then in riot and din,
Full thirty winters quite warm with gin;
With ready blunt to the shops I range,
But where I find it good I never change;
And Death, whene'er it comes so grim,
Shall find me guzzling Hodge's gin.

THE MAIL! THE MAIL!

ANONYMOUS.

THE Mail! The Mail! The Royal Mail,
The black, the red, the never pale ;
Without a bar, without a gate

She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight,
She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands,
Or like a tilted waggon stands.

I'm on the Mail, I'm on the Mail!

I am where I would ever sail,

With the dust before and the dust behind,
And driving straight before the wind,
If a storm should come, and disturb my ride,
What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.

I love, O! how I love to drive,
To urge the wheelers all alive,
While every loose stone strikes the box,
Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks,
And tells how goeth the road below,

Or why the panting leaders blow,
I never was in a dull post chaise,
But on the Mail was fain to gaze,
And jumped again on the bouyant box,
Like an ape that sits on its native rocks,
And my native place I always hail,
For I was born, was born in the "

'Royal Mail."

The roads were rough, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born,
The wind it whistled, the sign-board swung,

The leaders jobled, and out they flung,
And never was heard such an outcry wild

As welcomed to life the coachman's child.
I have lived since then on ale and gin,

Full fifty summers and not grown thin,
With a coach to run and a team to drive,
And never have sought or sighed to wive,
And love if ever in that I engage,

Must come on the fast light bounding Stage.

From Wiseheart's New Comic Songster, Dublin. No date.

THE ROAD,

THE road, the road, the turnpike road!

The brown, the hard, the smooth, the broad,

Without a check, without an end,

Horses against horses on it contend;

Men laugh at the gate, they bilk the tolls,

Or stop and pay like honest souls.

I'm on the road, I'm on the road,
I'm never so blithe as when abroad,
With the hills above, and the vales below,
And merry wheresoever I go,

If the opposition appears in sight

What matters-we'll soon make that all right.

I love-oh! how I love to ride,

With a smiling damsel by my side,
Where every prad keeps well his pace,

Nor draws my eye from the sweet one's face.
Nought tells how goeth the time of day,
Nor why the hours so fly away.

I never heard the angry sea roar,

But I love the dry land more and more;

And away have flown to my box and reins,

For whips and wheel sounds are my favourite strains;

On my team is all my care bestow'd,

For I was born on the turnpike road!

The clouds were dark, and grey the morn,

In the hazy hour when I was born;

The guard he whistled, the coach it roll'd,

And the outriders shrieked and shivered with cold,

And never was heard such a curious din,

As when the road-child the world popt in.

I have driven since then in fair and rough,
Full forty winters, a traveller tough,
With primest of cattle, and carriages neat,
And never had a spill or beat,

And death, whenever he looks for me,
Shall come on the road, and nct on the sea.
From The London Singer's Magazine.

THE STEAK.

OF steak, of steak-of prime rump steak-
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who'd cook a steak-who'd cook a steak,
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below.
In one delicious, genial glow.

If a coal should come, a blaze to make,

Have patience! You mustn't put on your steak.

First rub-yes, rub-with suet fat,

The gridiron's bars, then on it flat,
Impose the meat; and the fire soon,
Will make it sing a delicious tune,

And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.

Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er,
For a moment you broil your steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,

And add of butter a slice of the best ;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your steak,

When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require ;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your steak till done-nor let it burn:
For nothing drives me half so wild

As a nice rump steak in the cooking spiled. I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef; With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my steak I never wished to change : For a steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea. Punch.

THE TEA! THE TEA!

THE tea! the tea! the genuine tea!
Souchong, Young Hyson, Gunpowder, Bohea-
Without a leaf that was not found,
Growing on Noqua's famous ground.
It fills the teapot, and from the spout,
The hand of beauty pours it out.

I'm for the tea! I'm for the tea!
No chocolate, coffee, or such for me-
No sky-blue milk to blend with its flow-
No silence when round doth the tea-tray go!
If friends drop in, we will hail with glee
Their presence, and quaff our cups of tea!

I love-oh! how I love to sip,

The green-green tea with my willing lip,
When the toast is brown and the muffins hot,
And there's plenty of tea in the China pot,
And to talk some scandal and how below,
Matters and things in this world do go.

I never sat down with a dull tame "bore,"
But I loved a tea-party more and more;
And I backward flew to the cheerful sup
Like a bird that nibbles its sugar up;
And sugar it was, and more to me,

For 'twas blent with the flavour of good green tea.

I think I may say six thousand pounds

That is little enough-but one's heart's in the skies-
Therefore one can't be worldly wise.

I'm in the See, I'm in the See,

I am where I may ever be.
Suppose I do not choose to go,

What do you say then; yes or no?

Of the whole of the income I stand possessed,

And I can't be turn'd out of my mother's nest,

For a Mother the Church has been to me,

And I was born for her fattest See.

I love my See, my wealthy See,

I scorn the idea of Simony;

But I must take care what I'm about,
Six thousand a-year and I'll turn out.
My offer you had better take,
And you will, if you are wide awake,
For Death, whenever he comes to me,
Can alone compel me to quit my See.
Punch. August 2, 1856.

THE TEA.

By Carry Bornwall.

THE tea! the tea! the beef, beef tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I'll be bound,
The best for an invalid 'tis found;
It's better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe's supplies.

I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,

I'm satisfied, and aye shall be,

With the brew I love, with the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe'er I go.

If the price should rise, or meat be cheap
No matter! I'll to beef-tea keep.

I love-oh, how I love to guide

The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon,
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth, or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.

I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird: as a child on that I messed-
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef-beef-tea!
TOM HOOD, the younger.

THE VAN-DEMON.

THE Van, the Van! the hurrying Van!
Terror alike of beast and man ;
With awful rush and roaring sound
It thunders merrily over the ground.
It smashes the cabs, it crushes the flies,
Before it in ruin the tax-cart lies.
I'm on the Van, I'm on the Van!
Let people get out of the way who can.

Jolly the day when the Van was born,

In the noddle of Pickford, or Chaplin and Horne;
Says they, "The people denounce as slow
The waggons so huge from our yards that go.
We'll build a Van that hath equal space,
And horse it with horses that go the pace;
With a scowling blackguard the box we'll man,
Let people get out of the way who can."

I have lived since then in storm and strife,
The fierce Van-Demon's right jovial life.
I drive like mad,-if a cove complains,
He gets an oath or a cut for his pains;
And right and left doth the traffic fly,
When my thundering Juggernaut car comes by.
I scrunch folks' spokes as you'd scrunch a fan-
Let people get out of the way who can.

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1859.

Oh, proud must be our admiral (though he is pale to-day) Of twice five hundred iron men who all his nod obey ! Who've fought for him and conquered, who've won with

sweat and gore

Nobility, which he shall have whene'er he touch the shore ! Oh, would I were an admiral, to order with a wordTo lose a dozen drops of blood, and straight rise up a lord! I'd shout to yon bold shark there, which follows in our lee, "Some day I'll make thee carry me like lightning through the sea!"

Our admiral grew paler, and paler, as we flew,

Still talk'd he to the officers, and smiled upon the crew; And he look'd up at the heavens, and he look'd down on the sea,

And at last he saw the creature that was following in our lee!

He shook-'twas but an instant for speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart, till all chances he defied;

It threw boldness on his forehead, gave firmness to his breath,

And he look'd like some grim warrior new risen up from death!

THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.

How gallantly, how merrily we ride along the sea!
The morning is all sunshine, the wind is blowing free,
The billows are all sparkling and bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins the blood is running
bright.

All nature knows our triumph, strange birds about us sweep,

Strange things come up to look at us-the masters of the deep!

In our wake, like any servant, follows even the bold shark

Oh, proud must be our admiral of such a bonny bark

THE RETURN OF THE OMNIBUS.

How gallantly, how merrily, we ride along the lane, The passengers all hope to catch the eight o'clock uptrain;

The wind is fresh, the clouds of dust do in our faces fly, Like coming from the Derby, when the roads are always dry:

And all along is triumph: large crows above us sweep; Small boys rush out to shout at us, and maids from windows peep.

A free-school urchin hangs behind some way upon the road

Oh! proud must be our omnibus of such a jolly load!

And proud is Tom, the driver, too, who smiles, and well he may,

Of twice three people (in and out) who'll each a shilling pay;

He's proud, too, of that old grey horse, who earns so very

hard

The hay and water he shall have when once more in his

yard.

Oh, would that I were Tom, to drive and order with a word,

That old grey horse, whose harness is made up of tape and cord,

I'd shout unto the free-school boy who's hanging on our lee,

'If you don't mind, I'll whip behind, as quickly you shall

see.'

Our driver pale, and paler grew; but, as we went along, Still talked he to the passengers, and then he hummed a song;

And first he looked behind him, and then he looked on straight;

And then we thought we heard him say 'I think we is too late.'

He shook-'twas but an instant-we saw his fearful plight, The village clock struck eight just then; but that is never right.

He flogged the old grey horse along, till he was out of breath,

And when he reached the station doors he turned as pale as death.

We heard a bell, and then a pause, and then a bell again! We knew our fine old omnibus had missed the 'eight uptrain.'

And next we heard a rush of steam, but nothing could we see,

But a whistle and a puff among the fir-trees on our lee. We watched the passing vapour till it vanished round the steep,

Then back again t'wards home with all our luggage did

we creep;

But never from that moment, having once been 'sold,' again

We patronised the omnibus that always missed the train.

From A Pottle of Strawberries, by Albert Smith.

THE ALDERMAN.

(By a Parishioner of St. Stephen's, Walbrook.) How gallantly, how merrily, they ride upon their way; Fleet Street is in commotion, the Queen comes here to-day! The Aldermen are mounted, and sitting bolt-upright, Like riders in whose eyes it is no joke to hold on tight.

All London owns their triumph, they ride along two deep, Small boys come up to look at them, their seats so well they keep.

In their wake, as mild as new milk, stand policemen stiff and stark ;

Oh! who would not be Aldermen, in such a famous lark?

How crazily, how lazily,

We creep along the sea;

Our upper works are straining,

Our hull is rolling free;

Our lower ports they baffle
Attempts to caulk 'em tight,

Like scuppers, through whose leaky seams
The water runs outright!

E'en coal-brigs o'er us triumph,

Smart yachts about us sweep;
Green's ships come up to look at us-
The slow-coach of the deep!
In their wake, like any servant,
We sail from day to dark;
Oh, proud must be our Admiral-
-ty Lords of such a barque!

And proud must be our Admiral
(He's seventy-four to-day)
Of turning out on duty,

Whate'er the doctors say;

He has fought with them and conquered,
Although 'twas mad, they swore,
To go to sea, when he should have
Been laid up snug on shore.

Oh, if I were an Admiral

I wouldn't be on board,
I'd stay in London, if I could,
And be made a Junior Lord;
I'd write to the Prime Minister,
"Just find a place for me,
For a sheer hulk lies Tom Bowling,
No longer fit for sea?"

Our Admiral grew paler,

And bluer and more blue,
'Midst the sniggers of the officers,
And the broad grins of the crew;
For at sixes and at sevens

His stomach well might be,
'Twas so long, the poor old creature!
Since he had been at sea.

He heaved-'twas but an instant-
For the old sailor's pride
Succeeded in the effort

His nausea to hide.

So he mopped his poor old forehead,
And held hard his wheezy breath;
And, like a steamboat passenger,
Sat, looking grim as death!

That night the surgeon's whisper

Went round the mess to say,
That our poor old used-up Admiral
Was in a dreadful way:
Next day we beat to quarters,

In a Bath-chair wheeled was he,
With a Welsh wig, and his legs

Wrapped in fleecy hosiery!

That night a glass of toddy

Sent him cozily to sleep,
And next morning into harbour
The old ship made shift to creep.
And never from that moment,
(Lest again sick he might be)
Excepting in fine weather,

Did we venture out to sea.

Punch. January 15, 1853.

:0:

THE RETURN OF THE MEMBERS.

From the great Naval Review in 1853.

How speedily, how puffingly they glide along the rail, The M.P.'s who went down at morn to see the fleet in sail; And now they're going back to town to sit again to-night, Like creatures who've no Factory Bill to guard their labour's right;

And some are jolly, some can scarce their eyelids open keep,

And some who have been queer all day now are gone to sleep;

But in one carriage one young member ventures this remark,

"How proud must be the admiral of every glorious bark !"