THE LAST CUT.
New melo-drames, of tragic fate,
And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow;
Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt,
And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing,
But Lord!—so little have I felt,
I’m sure my heart is ossifying!
A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE.
NE day—no matter for the month or year,
Calais packet, just come over,
And safely moor’d within the pier,
Began to land her passengers at Dover;
All glad to end a voyage long and rough.
And during which,
Through roll and pitch,
The Ocean-King had sickophants enough!
Away, as fast as they could walk or run,
Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals,
With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels,
Away the passengers all went but one,
A female, who from some mysterious check,
Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck,
As if she did not care for land a tittle,
For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual—
Or nervously afraid to put
Her foot
Into an Isle described as “tight and little.”
In vain commissioner and touter,
Porter and waiter throng’d about her;
Boring, as such officials only bore—
In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck,
Of plank and ladder, there she stuck,
She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.
“But, ma’am,” the steward interfered,
“The wessel must be cleared.
You mustn’t stay aboard, ma’am, no one don’t!
It’s quite agin the orders so to do—
And all the passengers is gone but you.”
Says she, “I cannot go ashore and won’t!”
“You ought to!”
“But I can’t!”
“You must!”
“I shan’t!”