They thinks little of sizes on water,
On big waves the tiny one skulks,—
While the river has Men of War on it—
Yes—the Thames is oppressed with Great Hulks,
And the Boy’s at the Nore!
But I’ve done—for the water is heaving
Round my body, as though it would sink it!
And I’ve been so long pitching and tossing,
That sea-sick—you’d hardly now think it—
Is the Boy at the Nore!
THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
“Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!”—Mercutio.
I.
’Twas twelve o’clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,
Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.
II.
Said he, “Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup,”—
When whiter than the table-cloth,
A GHOST came rising up!