With the lodging-house-keepers all day on the bite,
And the insects I spoke of as hungry at night,
With the organs "Dog-traying" and "Bobbing Around,"
And extra-size Crinolines sweeping the ground,
You may think Mr. Punch might be apt to complain
That the seaside's but Regent Street over again:
But from devils and copy and proof-sheets set free,
I've a week to do nothing but bathe in the sea.
In steamers and yachts I've been rocked on its breast,
And didn't much like it, it must be confessed;