My body's of cork, of an olive green hue,
And my tip as the needle magnetic is true.
I'm a float! I'm a float! and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When Phoebus is bright and young zephyr at rest,
I lazily lie on the water's calm breast;
And I think all the time how hot it must be
Over there where my master lies under the tree,
A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground,
Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around!
I'm a float! I'm a float; and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray,
And winds whistle wild o'er the watery way,
I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee,
As a ducking I get when they top over me.
And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel,
With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel!
I'm a float! I'm a float! and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

Sometimes, when the water's not "soupy" in tint,
At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint;
And then, if I see a big scaly'un look

With a haif-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook,
A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill,
And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still.
I'm a float! I'm a float! and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

But then if the scaly 'un goes for that bait,
To my master the news in a crack I relate-

Yes!-no-eh ?-bravo?— bob! "-right under I go !
But I'm drawn up again in a minute or so.

Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make,

A big golden carp pulling well in my wake!
I'm a float! I'm a float! and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

I'm a float! I'm a float! on the deep rolling tide,
I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride!

I'm the fisherman's friend, his mark on the stream,
No.bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream.
So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care,
For your pleasures and pains I'll happily share.
I'm a float! I'm a float! and I'm fair on the job,
If the fishes below only give me a bob!

The Angler's Journal. April 3, 1886.

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OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?

Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began :—

Now don't you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt,

At the cook-shop a little up town,

How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass, For the pannum you sent rolling down?

The other commenced thus:—

OH! don't you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt,
Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown?

How she danced all the night, and drank with delight,
Just to keep up her fame and renown.

The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,
Reef the mizen, see all clear,
Hands up, each preventure brace set,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
G. A. STEVENS (died 1784.)

CEASE, RUDE BOREAS.

(By a worried Editor.)

CEASE to bore us, and assail us, Writers! with your pens so free! List the tale-though't won't avail us, And our troubles you shall see!

While around us roars the thunder,
Of the Postman's double knocks;
Till our Housemaid stares with wonder,
And our Tiger's nerves it shocks.

We have things oft sent that fright us,
And regard them all with scorn,
Pieces too that oft delight us,

And our breasts with rapture warm!
For the first-why we reject 'em
Or affront our readers sense,
For the second-we accept 'em,

Or we drive Subscribers hence!

Do not then too harsly judge us,
When we cast your trash aside;
Or of feelings good begrudge us

The exercise, both broad and wide!
We're IMPARTIAL! though you doubt us,
And to each give merit due ;
Full as honest-though you flout us.
As the mass of STOCKINGS BLUE!

The Monthly Belle Assemblée. September, 1836.

SONG FOR THE DOUCHE.

CEASE to lure us 'bout the ocean,

Neptune's is an easy couch,

Listen while a fellow patient

Sings the dangers of the Douche;

Stripped and shivering-quite defencelessStunned by its terrific roar

Now you're shouting-now you're senseless-
Now you're dashed upon the floor.

Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,-
"Stand up, 'twouldn't hurt a child;"
Still in vain for mercy calling,-

"Bathman, please to draw it mild'.”
Now 'tis over, rub and dress you;
Now the nerves are in full play,
"Bathman I'm all glowing-bless you,
Can't I have one every day?"

Now all you in sick beds lying,
Victims to each false alarm;

Pill and potion vainly trying
Only doing further harm.

Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors
Are but fancies of the brain,
They must smile at vulgar errors,

Who would health and strength regain.
Would you climb the rugged mountain,
Would you hear sweet warblers sing,
Come and taste the crystal fountain,—
Nature's pure life-giving spring;
Breathe the tainted air no longer,
Leave your sickly painful couch,
Every bath shall make you stronger,

Nervous sufferers try the Douche.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Funch, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865.

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"POLY."

(A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos of the "Polyphemus.")

Do you want to know the ugliest craft

That ever put from port?

Well that's the Poly, the steel ram'd Poly,
And she's a rare rum sort.

Open your peepers and look my lads,
She's lobbing agen the quay,
The sootiest craft afore and abaft
That ever shamed the sea.
Afloat, afloat, d'ye call her a boat?
Blac k deck, no white sails furled!
Poly, grim Poly,

Tame as "loblolly,'

The ug iest craft in the world!

Do you want to know the latest thing
To make a true tar dull ?

Well, that's the Poly, this precious Poly,
And darn her dirty hull!

Come, you'll see the horror a ¡yin' there,
Like a porpoise heavy with grog;

Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns,
Her hull like a lifeless log.

Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat,
Low down, no sail unfurled;
Poly, grim Poly,

Our nautical folly,

The ugliest craft in the world!

Do you want a toast to-night, my lads,

Afore we says good-bye?

Well, here's short life to the lumbering Poly, And blarm her hulk, says I.

Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads,

Drink in sepulchral tones:

"May a storm soon send this confounded Poly

To supper with David Jones."

Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat,

When the waves in heaps are hurled?

THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD.

Recitative.

O'ER Thompson's nose, by Swiggins' fist imprest,
Britannia weeps,—that face with bandage dress'd,
But that bright nose shall never fade with years,
Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears.

'Twas in the Spithead Bay
We saw Bill Swiggins lay,

He loudly swearing, then ;

We owed him for a joke
Which at the British Oak,

He levell'd at our men

Our Thompson mark'd the wily knave,

Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave,

Nor thought of home or duty;

Before the shine this signal ran,
"We owe a grudge to that 'ere man ;
This day we'll spoil his beauty."

And now we ply the oar,

And stretching from the shore,

Our Thompson clove the spray;

His ship the Sarah named,
Long Sarah had been famed

For squabbles night and day;

But dearly was our victory bought,
Our hero's nose a stinger caught,

For Sarah, home, and duty;
He cried, as to his foe he ran,
"We owe a grudge to that 'ere man,
This day we'll spoil his beauty."

But, oh! the dreadful wound,
Which sent the "claret" round,
The hero's nose received.

Then, sinking on his side,

"Our boat's going o'er," he cried ;
"But long enough I've lived,
I've black'd his other eye at last,
Have had revenge for insults pass'd
On Sarah, home, and duty!
Thus ends the row as it began-

Portsmouth confess'd that each brave man

Had spoilt the other's beauty!

Diogenes. July, 1853.

THE GREAT UNEMPLOYED.

(A Song for Scotland Yard. Air--" The Death of Nelson.")

'TWAS in Trafalgar Square

We heard Sedition blare;

Each heart was sickened then.

We'd scorned the foreign Reds

Who cracked each other's heads,

But here were madder men.

Henderson marked them howl and rave, But little heed that hero gave.

Let Roughdom smash and loot, he

Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan.
And London owned at least one man
That day that shirked his duty.

And now the rabble roar,
And plunder as they pour;
No Bobbies stop the way.
London, for order famed,

Is startled, shocked, and shamed
By this disgraceful day!

Right dearly is experience bought,

The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought,
Unchecked, for drink and booty.

From mouth to mouth the murmur ran,
"London has found a trusted man

This day has shirked his duty."
Pride feels a painful wound,
Dismay is spread around;

Our trust has been deceived.
But shirkers must be tried,
If need be, thrust aside,
Our credit be retrieved.
Policedom's honour is at stake,
Policedom from its drowse must wake,
It guards home, wealth, age, beauty,
From Chief to youngest guardian,
London must know that every man
Is equal to his duty!

Punch. February, 1886.

compare,

With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadier.

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon-ball,
Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal;
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British
grenadiers.

Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war,
Brave Neptune with his trident, Apollo in his car,
And all the gods celestial, descending from their spheres,
Behold with admiration the British grenadiers.

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,
Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades;

We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman's ears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers.

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair,

The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,— Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears.

Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the
British grenadiers.

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those
Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loopèd clothes.
May they and their commanders live happy all their years,
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British
grenadiers !

ANONYMOUS. (Written about 1760.)

Of Blucher and Lysander,
And of Napoleon.

But of all the gallant heroes,

There's none for to compare,

With his Quick march to the right about! Face! To the Brook Green Volunteer.

Without the least occasion,

He rushes to the field,
From peril of invasion

Old Hammersmith to shield.
The geese loud cackling round him,
The donkies braying near,
Appal not the truly British heart
Of the Brook Green Volunteer.
Retreating do not mention,

Nor talk of War's alarms,
When Duty cries, Attention!
And Valour, Shoulder Arms!
The soul despises danger,

The bosom knows no fear

Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man,
The Brook Green Volunteer.

In spite of vilest weather
Erect, and proud of mien,
Each night, for hours together,
He guards his native Green;
Catarrh and cough defying,

No matter how severe;

What a downright, thorough-going trump
Is the Brook Green Volunteer!

At this inclement season
The hero must be bold,
For no particular reason

To brave a death of cold.
Then yield the palm of glory,

And stand a drop of beer

To that gay, gallant, promising recruit,

The Brook Green Volunteer.

Punch. February 28, 1846.

This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in Punch, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled The Blackguard Grenadier," commenced thus :

"Most regiments have some varlet,
Some rascal mean and base,
A stain upon their scarlet,

Their scandal and disgrace."

This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards stationed in London." Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed, clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments.

THE GALLANT SPECIALS.

(During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn in as special constables.)

THEY may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red, They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue ;

They may boast if they please, of such troops as these, And of all the exploits they'd do.

But London town acknowledges,

That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals,

They're not up to the mark, in the street or the park, Of the gallant Spe-ci-als.

The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade,

And partial to kitchen stuff;

The Detectives, too, are by no means a do,

But perfectly up to snuff,

For what are they, I should like to know,
When the voice of duty calls,

To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks
Of the Cockney Spe-ci-als?

Oh! 'tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob,
Who thought insurrection to hatch;

And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold,
But funk'd when it came to the scratch.

Who swore that they did not care one whit,
For grapeshot, or rockets, or balls;

But who cut right away, with the devil to pay,
At the sight of the Spe-ci-als.

The Man in the Moon, Vol. III.

THE THIEVISH PRIVATEER.

OH! some talk about Jack Sheppard;
Bill Sikes a hero call ;

And some speak of a worthy,

Whose name it is Sam Hall;

But there's a thief in our belief

Whose crimes e'en worse appear,

Who in war's dark hour doth the ocean scour'Tis the thievish Privateer.

While nations are contending-
While principles at stake,

Upon the strife depending,

The world's foundation shake.

No thought has he of liberty,

No hopes of glory cheer;

But alone for the pelf,

To enrich himself,

Fights the thievish Privateer.

It's perfectly clear there's none comes near

To full British PRIVATE SMITH.

Its easy to fight, with glory
At hand to gild your name,
And stick it up in story,

Among the sons of fame.

But SMITH, full British private,

Is expected to be brave,

With the cold "cold shade" above his head,

At his feet a nameless grave.

For Generals there's the peerage,

With grant of public tin; There's regiments for Colonels, For Captains steps to win.

But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost,
(If he avoided beer)

Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth
Some fifteen pounds a-year.

Till now the stars and garters,

Were for birth's or fortune's son,
And as oft in snug home-quarters,
As in fields of fight were won.
But at length a star arises,
Which as glorious will shine

On SMITH'S red serge vest as upon the breast
Of SMYTH'S Scarlet superfine.

Though carpet-knights may grumble,
Routine turn up its nose,

Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS,

And AIREYS may oppose,

Yet shall the star of valour

Defy their scoffs and jeers

As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line,

And plain SMITH of the Grenadiers.

Too long mere food for powder

We've deem'd our rank and file,

Now higher hopes and prouder.

Upon the soldier smile.

And if no Marshal's bâton

PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears, At least in the War, the chance of the star With his General he shares.

Punch. February 23, 1856.

There was another parody of the same song in Punch, February 27, 1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled "Aitcheson's Carabineers," appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of Logan's "Pedlar's Pack of Ballads and Songs."

THROUGH FIRE AND WATER; OR, THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS.

SOME talk of Alexander,

And some of Hercules,

The Chief whose martial dander, Asked worlds to stand at ease

The Sayers of the prize ring,

In high Olympian spheres,