So far from the roar of the seething city,
The poet reposes much too quite,
He trills to the Thames in a dainty ditty;
And O for the wash of the weir at night!
Malicious Swell in the stern sheets (to little party on the weather quarter). "Splendid breeze, isn't it, Gus?"
Gus (who, you see, has let his cigar go out). "Ye-es; but I say, what's o'clock? Isn't it time to turn back?—What d'ye think?"