THE BATTLE OF THE YATCHES.
A truly affecting copy of verses, made by a British Tar in Spit-head last August, and corked up in a bottle, floated to the end of the Herne Bay Pier last week. The bottle was speedily uncorked, in a vague expectation of Cognac; but the finders, discovering that the only spirit which it contained was the spirit of the verses, magnanimously surrendered the whole to the board of Admiralty, as justly and legally appertaining to that body. The Board, having sat upon the bottle (and broken it), rose as soon as possible after instructing the First Lord to transmit to us the poetry, with a polite note, stating how they had come by it, and lamenting that the poet should have so obstinately adhered to his peculiar mode of spelling the word "Yacht."
THE BATTLE OF THE YATCHES.
Oh, weep ye British Sailors true,
Above or under hatches,
Here's Yankee Doodle's been and come,
And beat our crackest yatches!
They started all to run a race,
And wor well timed with watches;
But oh! they never had no chance,
Had any of our yatches.
The Yankee she delayed at first,
Says they, "She'll never catch us,"
And flung up their tarpaulin hats—
The owners of the yatches!
But presently she walked along;
"O dear," says they, "she'll match us!"
And stuck on their tarpaulin hats,
The owners of the yatches!
Then deep we ploughs along the sea
The Yankee scarcely scratches,
And cracks on every stitch of sail
Upon our staggering yatches.
But one by one she passes us
While bitterly we watches,
And utters imprecations on
The builders of our yatches.
And now she's quite hull down a-head,
Her sails like little patches.
For sand barges and colliers we
May sell our boasted yatches.
We faintly hears the Club-house gun—
The silver cup she snatches—
And all the English Clubs are done,
The English Clubs of yatches!
They say she didn't go by wind,
But wheels, and springs, and ratches;
And that's the way she weathered on
Our quickest going yatches.
But them's all lies, I'm bound to say—
Although they're told by batches—
'Twas build of hull, and cut of sail,
That did for all our yatches.
But novelty, I hear them say,
Some novelty still hatches!
The Yankee yatch the keels will lay
Of many new Club yatches.
And then we'll challenge Yankee land,
From Boston Bay to Natchez,
To run their crackest craft agin
Our spick and span new yatches.
MODES OF ADDRESSING PERSONS OF
VARIOUS RANKS.
(By Our Fast Professor.)
A Duke, or other Titled Person. "Now, old Strawberry-Leaves;" or, as the case may be. An Earl carries Five Balls, and a Baronet a Bloody Hand, which naturally points out the mode of addressing the bearers. A Bishop is gratified by being addressed as "Old Shirt-Sleeves." If the ecclesiastic wears spectacles, it is de rigueur to add, facetiously, that you observe his is not a "See Sharp." An Archdeacon you will, of course, call "Archy;" and a Rural Dean you will address as "My Rustic." The Clergy, as a body, you will speak of as the "White Chokers." The Lay Aristocracy are simply styled "The Nobs." Attention to this rule is requested. An irreverent young reporter (from Ireland) having recently incautiously asked an official of the House of Lords "who that Buffer was?" (indicating a nobleman who was speaking,) was solemnly answered: "Sir, we have no Buffers here; they are all Peers of the Realm."
A Police Magistrate. Before you are fined—"My Lord;" "Your Worship;" "Your Reverence;" "Your Excellency;" "Your Majesty;" or whatever title of honour comes readiest to your tongue. After Justice has done her worst, you will merely allude to your enemy as the "Beak."
Your Father. Speaking to him, say, "Guvnor," or "Old Strike-a-Light;" of him, "The Old 'Un."
A Tradesman. Your address in this case will depend upon the state of accounts between yourself and the party spoken to; but an easy familiarity should generally be preserved; and it is a good rule, if you wish to please a tradesman, to call him by a name, or make some allusion, derived from the trickery of his particular trade. A Grocer you will call "Young Chicory;" or, if a female, "Mrs. Beans." A Sausage Vendor's shop you will enter playfully imitating the cry of the itinerant merchant who supplies daily food to the canine and feline menial. And a Woollen Draper you should salute with, "Well, Devil's Dust."
The Waitress at a Restaurateur's, or elsewhere. "Mary, my love, my only angel, come here;" "Sarah, my darling, what's good for my complaint?" "Jane's very sweet upon me, ain't you, Jane?"
A Box-keeper. "Here, Pew-opener."
A Pew-opener. "Here, Box-keeper."
All sorts and conditions of Men. In any manner in which a gentleman would not address them.