On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below;
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.

De Captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck, too—
He call de crew from up de hole
He call de cook also.
De cook she's name was Rosie,
She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor'—eas'—wes'
De sout' win' she blow, too,
W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"
Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark, lak' one black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good by, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early,
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De Captinne, scow, an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore;
For he win' she blow lak' hurricane
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore. MORAL Now, all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm,
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm;

De win' can blow lak' hurricane,
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre,
So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER

"IT WAS AN ANCIENT MARINER"

Many a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot,
And so below he'd "dowse the glim"—
After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,
This ancient skipper might be found;
No matter how his craft would rock,
He slept—for skippers' naps are sound!
The watch on deck would now and then
Run down and wake him, with the lead;
He'd up, and taste, and tell the men
How many miles they went ahead.
One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch,
A curious wag—the peddler's son—
And so he mused (the wanton wretch),
"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools
To think the skipper knows by tasting
What ground he's on—Nantucket schools
Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead
And rubbed it o'er a box of earth
That stood on deck—a parsnip-bed—
And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste."
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,
Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste,
And then upon the floor he sprung!
The skipper stormed and tore his hair,
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,
"Nantucket's sunk, and here we are
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
James Thomas Fields.

THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat. On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat; And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat. The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat; And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat. His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat. Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and hat. His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat; And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat. George Canning.

SAYING NOT MEANING