(As Deduced from a late Collision) The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong.
"THE USUAL CHANNEL"
To what snug refuge do I fly
When glass is low, and billows high,
And goodness knows what fate is nigh?—
My Cabin!
Who soothes me when in sickness' grip,
Brings a consolatory "nip,"