"What lovely wench is that there here?" A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw. But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. CCCLXIV. THE SWELL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR. I DON'T appwove this hawid waw ; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and dwums are such a baw, Why don't the pawties compwamise? Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; And then the ladies-pwecious deahs! They wathah like the howid wow! To hear the chawming cweatures talk, C. Dibdin I called at Mrs. Gween's last night, The weddest kind of flannel shirts! Of cawce I wose and saught the daw, Why don't the pawties compwamise? Vanity Fair CCCLXV. THE ALARMED SKIPPER. MANY a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot, And so below, he'd "dowse the glim," After, of course, his "something hot." Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag, And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun. "We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!" And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck (a parsnip bed), – "Where are we now, sir, please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung! The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, "Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" The jury gave their verdict, that Though one stood out upon a whim, The moral of this mournful tale, And he who scorns to "take the pledge," And keep the promise fast, May be, in spite of fate, a stiff J. G. Saze. CCCLXVII. WHITTLING. THE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; No little part that implement hath had, - Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, |