THE LAMENT OF THE PORTSMOUTH SLOPSELLER.
Pretty Christianth! No war! Dey von't fight after all!
Pretty Christianth, nice Christianth, dese nations I call
Dey promith'd so fair to cut each others' throatsh,
And dey're goin' to thettle de shquabble by notesh!
Not a goin' to fight!—and deir quarrel arose
About deir religionth—not comin' to blows!
Dere never was Christianth behaved so afore,
But who's to depend on 'em now, any more?
Here'th we bin' a goin' and thtockin' our thopth,
And what shall we do now wid all dem old thlopth
Wid which all our thelvth and our vinders is filled—
No war, nor no actionth, nor no theamen killed?
Vat customers is dere dem vatcheth vill buy,
As ve've got for the thailorth—dem vatcheth to fry?
Dem jewels, rings, thatins, and thilks, all in store
Agin Jack with prizemoney comin' athore?
And vere's all de monish ve thought good as made
In other thmall vays of rethpectable trade,
Such as lodgin' and board for de tars to provide,
And p'raps a few thlight 'commodations bethide?
Dere's Jacobth a cryin', 'cause now he von't get
Jack Junk to run head over ears in his debt,
Vid his Vill and his Power, lest he shouldn't come back.
By vay of insurin' de life of poor Jack.
Vot a shame o' them Christianth our hopes to ecthite,
And then for to cruth 'em, and not have no fight!—
Just ven as ve'd made up our mouths for the meat—
Pretty Christianth! I thpose you don't call this no sheat!