And lo! James Muddle, with his wife and daughter,
All in a boat, and crying out, "Don't swamp us!"
Far in the offing you may see a cutter,
Her white sails gleaming like the sea-gull's pinions,—
She means to overhaul that craft, with butter
Laden, and cheese, from swampy Scheldt's dominions;
I shouldn't wonder if Schiedam—however,
That's not my business;—turn our glances landward,
There's Farley in his garden—well, I never!—
A-talking down the chimney, to my landlord;