THE BATHER'S DIRGE.
By Tennyson Minor.
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold hard stones, O Sea!
And I hope that my tongue won't utter
The curses that rise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
O well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!
And the ships swim happily on
To their haven under the hill:
But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand,
And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!
Break, break, break,
At my poor bare feet, O Sea!
But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes
Will never come back to me.
From Funny Folks, 1879.
The two following are taken from Punch:—