How wildly the winkles express their delight,

Though Robinson Crusoe would frown in affright.

On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er,

Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore,

And heeds not her havoc—for heaving in sight

Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,—but “tight”

As never was British belovèd before.’

Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate—

She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave,

When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate