THE LAY OF THE CHANNEL-PASSAGE SALT.
Ho! Yeho, Boys! Yeho! I'm no craven,
When you set me in face of the sea;
Be it Folkestone—or even Newhaven,
That I hail from, it's all one to me;
For I take up my post by the funnel,
And I reck not which way the winds blow;
And I scorn thoughts of bridge or of tunnel
As I start, singing Ho, boys! yeho!
But who drops a hint about going below?
Why, he'll see I've the knack, boys,
Just like every true Jack, boys,
Of paying my fare with a "Ho, boys! Yeho!"
We have scarcely left port, yet, already,
All my nautical visions grow blurred;
If I move,—well, I feel so unsteady,
That I half wish that I had not stirred.
Weakly smiling, I turn to the steward,
And inquire if he thinks it will blow;
He just gazes to windward and leeward,
And replies, "You'd best get down below."
But no! I'm not thinking of going down below,
Though I'm not easy here,
And I own I feel queer,
I'm equal, as yet, to a modest Yeho!
Well, 'tis over! At truth no use blinking!
Face that passage again? Oh! I daren't!
Through the first half I feared we were sinking,—
Through the second I feared that we weren't!
Though gin, chloral, stout, brandy, and "bitter,"
I tried all in turns, but to find them no go,
Still, in voice for a hospital fitter,
I gave them a plaintive, "Yeho! boys! Yeho!"
For the steward had carried me gently below!
That's the best place, you'll find,
Should you make up your mind,
To shout in Mid-Channel, "Ho! Yeho, boys! Yeho!"
"Bravo!" cried Mr. Punch, as the singer finished—"I quite agree with you. But now let me see what else is to be seen on the sands."
It was a gay scene—all the gayer for the delightful weather. Mr. Punch, knowing that his wishes must immediately be gratified, had taken care to desire beau temps en permanence.
"This is really very charming," murmured the Sage; "and I am not surprised that one of the brightest of my Artists chose it for his holiday resting-place last Summer—and, as I live, there he is! Halloa! Hi! Have you forgotten your old friend?"
"Forgotten you, my dear Mr. Punch!" said a gentleman of extreme elegance, approaching the Sage. "How could you think of such a thing? Why, you have had proofs of my goodwill every week for the last quarter of a century."
"So I have," returned Mr. Punch, heartily, "and have you anything from your portfolio you can show me?"
"What do you think of this?" And he showed him two Gauls, en costume de bain.
"What are these?" asked the Sage.
"I will tell you," replied the melancholy-looking tourist, approaching with his concertina. Then, in a soft voice, he sang the following lines, which he called