"IF!"
(A Channel Sketch.)
'Tother day I steamed from Dover
To Boulogne-sur-Mer:
We'd bad weather crossing over:
Very sick we were.
Busy, Steward's-Mate and Steward—
"Basins!" was the cry:
Ocean heaved, because it blew hard;
Heaved, and so did I.
In the intervals of basin
Blessed dreams were mine:
Fowler was from Ocean 'rasin'
Every ill-ruled line.
Over Neptune's worst commotion
Holding despot's state,
He not only ruled the Ocean,
But he ruled it straight!
Steady, sea ne'er so ugly,
Did his craft behave;
Passengers, carriaged snugly,
Sweeping o'er the wave!
Not a soul from out his cushions
Moved, the passage through;
Padded soft against concussions,
And spring-seated, too!
O, it was a blessèd vision!
Blessèd all the more
For that awful exhibition
Betwixt shore and shore.
But when terra-firma reason
On that dream I fixed,
At a less afflicted season,
Doubt with hope was mixed.
For, I thought—Can Fowler answer
That his boats won't roll—
Grant, that, swift as a merganser,
O'er the sea they bowl?
If they roll—and who can promise
That they never will?—
Little joy to John Bull from his
Power of sitting still.
Think of an afflicted train-full
Cabined, cribbed, confined—
Rolling with the rollings painful
Of that pen inclined!
Face to face, and knee to knee, sick,
Retch and heave and strain,
Think of a whole hundred sea-sick
All along the train!
Sea-sickness in open ocean
May be bad to bear,
But, boxed up in a train in motion,
Worse, far worse, it were!
So if Fowler cannot promise
Pitch-and-toss shall be
Game of chance, far-banished from his
Skimmers of the sea,
Better 'gainst our woes we gird us—
Cold, and stench, and spray—
Than in railway train you herd us,
Nausea's helpless prey!
If the traveller from Dover
Reached the other shore,
Worser woes, than crossing over,
Were for him in store.
Awfuller than the up-turn he
Suffers from the tide,—
Think upon that six hours' journey
On the other side!
Present woe 'gainst worse mismarriage—
Put it to the vote—
And I'll bet 'tis contrà carriage,
And for open boat!