His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over With envy; they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning—dreaming—doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating;
He hid it in a cave, and wrought The live-long day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description, wretched: such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, No sail—no rudder.
From neighb'ring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows—
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger:—
‘Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned: Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned.’