And greet these waves, as Byron did, as though with them you'd play?
They're dangerous playfellows, boy; tiger-cubs hardly in it
For riskiness! I say, do stop! You'll swamp us in a minute.
Look at your Crown! Such head-gear, boy, is seldom a tight fit,
And oscillations sometimes act as Notices to Quit!
What would your grandfather have said to see you sway and prance?
Sit still, lad, you alarm us all. Just look at Madame France!
She's thought a fairish sailor, and has doffed her Crown, but see,
She's clutching at the gunwale, too, as nervous as can be.
Whilst, as for dear Señora Spain and her poor little charge,