But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall’s-end give me;
And it an’t to a little I’ll strike.
Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite,
And shiver each bundle of wood;
Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow everything tight,
And boiling a gallop we’ll scud.
I have cooked Stevens’s, or rather Incledon’s Storm in the same way; but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing.
Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,