SLENDER'S JOURNEY

Tormented with landlords and pester'd with care, This life, I protest, is a tedious affair; And, since I have got a few dollars to spare, I'll e'en take a jaunt, for the sake of fresh air.

Since the day I return'd to this king-hating shore Where George and his cronies are masters no more, And others are plac'd at the helm of affairs, Relieving the weight of his majesty's cares;

For many long weeks, it has still been my doom To sit like a mopus, confin'd to my loom, Whose damnable clatter so addles my brain, That, say what they will, I am forc'd to complain.

Our citizens think, when they sit themselves down In the gardens that grow in the skirts of the town, They think they have got in some rural retreat, Where the nymphs of the groves, and the singing birds meet

When only a fence shuts them out from the street; With the smoke of the city be-clouding their eyes They sit in their boxes, and look very wise, Take a sip of bad punch, or a glass of sour wine;

Conceiting their pleasures are equal to mine, Who rove where I will, and wherever I roam, In spite of new faces, am always at home. Poor Richard, the reel-man, had nothing to say;

He knew very well I would have my own way;— When I said, “My dear Richard, I'm sick of the town, “And Dutchmen that worry me, upstairs and down, “A book of bad debts, and a score of bad smells,

“The yelping of dogs, and the chiming of bells; “I am sick of the house, and the sight of small beer, “And the loom may be going, tho’ I am not here; “I therefore shall leave you, and that, to be plain,

“‘ Till I feel in a humour to see you again.” — Poor Richard said nothing to all that I spoke, But kindled his pipe, and redoubled his smoke. Yet it would have been nothing but friendship in him

To have said,— “Robert Slender,‘ tis only a whim:— A trip to the Schuylkill, that nothing would cost, Might answer your ends, and no time would be lost; But if you are thinking to make a long stay,

Consider, good Robert, what people will say: His rent running on, and his loom standing still — The man will be ruin'd!— he must, if he will —! If tradesmen will always be flaunting about,

They may live to repent it — before the year's out!” As I never could relish to travel alone, I look'd round about, but could hit upon none Whom Satan was tempting to leave their own houses

And ramble to York with their daughters and spouses; At last, by repeating my trouble and care, And preaching a month on the sweets of fresh air, And the curse and the plague of remaining in town,

Where the heat was sufficient to melt a man down, I got a few friends to consent to the trip; And the first I shall mention was honest Will. Snip, Philadelphia the famous had own'd to his birth,

The gravest of towns on the face of the earth; Where saints of all orders their freedom may claim, And poets, and painters, and girls of the game: To him all its streets and its alleys were known,

But his travels had never exceeded the town:— A salesman by trade ( and a dabster was he To make a silk knee-band set snug to the knee ) With his wife ( and he says I may mention her name )

Susanna Snipinda — so charming a dame, The sun had with pleasure look'd down on her head, So freckled was she, and her tresses so red. To wait on the will of so handsome a lady

A youngster was order'd to hold himself ready, A sly looking lad that was‘ prentice to Snip, And long had been learning to cabbage and clip;— When Snip was in sight, he was mild as a lamb;

When absent, old Satan could hardly rule Sam. The next I describe is bold captain O'Keef, A killer of men, and a lover of beef: With the heroes of old he had put in his claim,

And catch'd at their mantles, and rose into fame: To the sound of a fife and the tune of no song With his Andra Ferrara he paddled along: From his manners so rough, and his dealing in ruin,

He was known thro’ the town by the name of Sir Bruin; He was, among women, a man of great parts, A captain of foot, and a master of arts: He had, a sweet creature put under his care,

( Whose style of address was, my dear, and my dear ) A Milliner's girl, with a bundle of lace, Whom Cynthia he call'd, for the sake of her face, At a ball or a frolic how glib his tongue ran,

He was, I may say, an unparallell'd man, Very apt to harangue on the hosts he has slain Of people — perhaps that may meet him again: Yet so kind to the sex of the feminine make,

By his words, he would venture to die for their sake, Whence some have suspected, that some he ador'd Have more than made up for the wastes of his sword. The third in succession was Monsieur Touppee,

A barber from Paris, of royal degree, ( For oft when he takes up his razor, to strap it, He tells his descent from the house of Hugh Capet ) Tho’ soft in the head, his discourses were long,

Now counting his honours, and now his l'argent. This barber, tho’ meaning for pleasure to stray, Yet had some pomatum to sell by the way, Perfumes, and fine powders, and essence of myrrh,

A bundle of brooms, and a firkin of beer:— His merits are great ( he would have us suppose ) For Louis ( it seems ) he has had by the nose, Has bid him, when drooping, to hold up his chin,

And handled a tongs — at the head of the Queen. A singer of ballads was next in our train, Who long had been dealing in ballads in vain; He sometimes would sing in a musical tone,

And sometimes would scribble a song of his own: Yet never was seen with his brethren to mix — And laugh'd at your poets in coaches and six; Who sing, like the birds, when the weather is fine;

Whose verses the ladies pronounce “so divine;” Who ride with Augustus, wherever he goes, And, meeting old Homer, would turn up the nose — As to those, like himself, that were held to the ground,

He knew it was folly to feed them with sound — He knew it was nonsense to crown them with bays, And was too much their friend to insult them with praise. For a dozen long years he had liv'd by the mob:

On the word of a weaver, I pitied poor Bob! He had sung for the great and had rhym'd for the small, But scarcely a shilling had got by them all — So bad was his luck, and so poor was the trade,

And the Muses, he thought, were so sneakingly paid, That if times did n't alter, and that very soon, He said and he swore, he must sing his last tune. Some devil had put it, somehow, in his head

If he took a short journey his fortune was made: Some devil had told him ( but whether in dreams Or waking, I know not ) some devil, it seems, Had made him believe that the nymphs and the swains

Were fairly at war with their old fashion'd strains, That the tunes which the kirk or the curates had made ( And which always had ruin'd the balladman's trade ) Were wholly disus'd, and that now was the time

For singers of catches and dealers in rhyme To step from their stalls, where they long were disgrac'd, Reform the old music, and fix a new taste. A mate of a schooner, bespatter'd with tar,

Who had lately come in from Savanna-la-Mar, For, the sake of an airing had stept from his deck And ventur'd a jaunt, at the risque of his neck, His name and his nation no soul could mistake.—

He was Bryan O'Bluster, and much of a rake; From morning till night he was still on the move, Was always in taverns, or always in love: His life was sustain'd by the virtues of grog,

And many long miles he had sail'd by the log.— Of battles and storms he had known a full share, And his face, it was plain, was the worse for the wear; To see a mean fellow, lord how it would fret him;

And he hated a puppy, wherever he met him — He was ready to bleed for the good of each State, But since they had left the poor seamen to fate; Themselves in the dumps, and their fair ones in tears,

And many brave fellows detain'd in Algiers!— Had spirit sufficient to make themselves free, But not to resent their affronts on the sea! As this was the case — he must bid us good night,

And sail with a flag that would do itself right. At cursing and swearing he play'd a good hand, But never was easy a minute on land; If the wind was a-head, or his Kitty untrue,

Why, patience was all the relief that he knew:— In the midst of misfortune he still was serene, And Kitty, he said, was a feeble machine: His heart was too hard for a lady to sigh,

Yet I guess'd him a rogue by the leer in his eye: “The world ( he would say ) is a whimsical dance — And reason had taught him to leave it to chance. In chace of dame Fortune his prime he had pass'd,

And now was beginning to fail very fast, But thought it was folly his heart to perplex, As Fortune was just like the rest of her sex;— Designing, and fickle, and taken with show,

Now fond of a monkey, and now of a beau:— Yet, still, as the goddess was made up of whim, He meant to pursue‘ till she smil'd upon him.” And tho’ he was always deceiv'd in the chace,

He smooth'd up his whiskers, and wore a bold face. On horseback he first had attempted to go, But the horse was no fool, and had give him a throw; He fell in a pond, and with not a dry rag on

The horse brought him back to the sign of the waggon, Where three times he call'd for a dram of their best, And three times the virtues of brandy confess'd; Then took some tobacco, and soberly said,

“De'il take such a vessel; she's all by the head, Broach'd to on a sudden, and then, d'ye see, Myself and the saddle went over the lee.” His head was so full of his ragged command

He could scarcely believe he was yet on dry land; He would rise in his sleep; call the watch up at four, Ask the man at the helm how the Eddystone bore; Then, rubbing his eyes, bawl out, “By my soul,

“We are bearing right down on the Hatteras shoal; “The devil may trust to such pilots as you: “We are close on the breakers — the breakers — halloo!” The sixth, and the last, that attended our journey,

Was a man of the law, a Rhode-Island attorney, As cunning as Satan to argue or plead, To break an entailment, or get himself fee'd They call'd him Ezekiel — I cannot tell what —

Perhaps I forget it — perhaps I do not — He had once been a parson, and studied at Yale, But took to the law, when his preaching grew stale; In his system of thinking, not well understood,

I wander'd about, like a man in a wood; From morning‘ till night he was nothing but whim, Not a man in the town held opinions, like him: In regard to the vulgar, he argued that Law

Was better than preaching, to keep them in awe: That the dread of a gallows had greater effect, And a post or a pillory claim'd more respect From a knave — and would sooner contribute to mend,

Than all the grave precepts that ever were penn'd. Having pitch'd on our party, there rose a dispute On the mode of conveyance — in waggon or boat? For my part, said Snip, I was always afraid

Of sailors, and sloops and the shallopman's trade, And the reason thereof I will candidly tell, My grandmother, Mopsy, was drown'd in a well; I therefore intreat you, and fervently pray

We may go with the waggons the Burlington way. “Hold, master,” the sailor replied in a fret, “The devil's not ready to bait for you yet: Even this way, you know, there is water to pass,

And twenty long miles we should sail with an ass;— But, gentlemen all, will you take my advice? Here's Albertson's sloop; she's so new and so nice, Her bottom so sleek, and her rigging so trim,

Not Bailey or Hyde can be mentioned with him; In her cabbin and steerage is plenty of room, And how clever she looks with her flying jib-boom, A topsail aloft, that will stand by the wind,

And a yard rigg'd athwart, for a squaresail design'd. “Odds fish! I would sooner some little delay Than go, like a booby, the fresh-water way Where your cream-colour'd captains ne'er swear a bad word,

And sail without compass or quadrant on board, Catch catfish and sturgeons, but never a whale, Nor balance a mizen, to fight with the gale: But Albertson goes by the route of Cape May,

Salt-water, and sees the bold porpusses play: Where the shore of the coast the proud ocean controuls He travels, nor strikes on the Barnegat shoals.” “You tar-smelling monster! ( Snipinda rejoin'd )

Your jargon has almost distracted my mind. If Snip should be drownded, and lost in the sea, You never once think what a loss it would be! I should then be a widow, dejected and sad

And where would I find such another sweet lad! And Doctor Sangrado a letter has wrote, And how, in three weeks he will want a new coat.” — Snip's heart, at her answer, seem'd ready to break:

“Snipinda,” said he, “I would live for your sake! If I should be drownded, indeed, it is true, It would be a bad journey for Sam and for you!” — For fear they should hear him, Sam whisper'd, “In troth

I would give my new hat that the devil had both.” “If Snip should be drown'd,” said the valiant O'Keef, “Poor woman! already I guess at her grief — However, for aught that a stranger can see,

There are dozens as brisk at the needle as he, And, tho’ it were hard that the sea-fish should tear him, I'm fully convinc'd that his brethren can spare him: “But were I to mention the very best way,

And the quickest to boot ( for they go in a day ) I would sleep over night at the sign of the Queen, ( Where the wine is so good, and the beds are so clean ) Then starting by day-break, and riding in state,

Arriving in Bristol — we breakfast at eight, Then push on our way, with a rapid career, With nothing to hinder, and nothing to fear, Till Trenton, and Princeton, and Brunswick are pass'd,

And safe on the Hudson they drop us at last.” When the captain had finish'd, the Frenchman arose, And smoothing his whiskers, and squaring his toes, With a bend of his back, and a swing of his head

Thus expressing his wish, with a flourish, he said: “Wherever pomatums are most in demand That route has my vote, be it water or land: Wherever I travel, through sun-shine or glooms,

May fortune direct me to powders and plumes!— So, gentlemen, choose, I beseech you, that road Where ladies prefer to be dress'd in the mode.” “Hold, varlet, be still” — said the Yankee attorney,

“Are you to decide on the route of our journey? These run-about fellows, I cannot but hate‘ em, With their rings, and their ruffles, and rolls of pomatum: But, gentlemen, ( if I may venture to speak

In the stile I was wont when I dabbled in Greek, When I blew on my trumpet, and call'd up my pack, Who thought I was holy because I was black; Or, if you allow me a moral to draw

From some words that were frequent with Doctor Magraw );— “We all have in view to arrive at one town, “Yet each one would find out a way of his own; “What a pity it is that we cannot agree

“To march all together to Zion” — said he — But, since I'm convinc'd that it cannot be so, ( For his journey resembles our journey below ) Like the sects in religion, I heartily pray

That each, as he pleases, may have his own way, Let Snip, and the captain, adventure by land, The sailor by sea — he can reef, steer, and hand; Let the Frenchman set out in a gaudy balloon,

( He'll either be there, or be dead, very soon,) For my own part, I'm fond of the Burlington boat, But still, if you're willing, I'll put it to vote: The hint was sufficient — he put it to vote,

And fate bade us go with the Burlington boat. The morning was fair, and the wind was at west, The flood coming in, and the ladies were drest; At the sign of the Billet we all were to meet,

And Snip was the first that appear'd in the street; He strutted along with a mighty brisk air, While Sam and Snipinda walked slow in the rear. Dress'd, booted, and button'd, and “cutting a shine”

The captain came next, with his loaded carbine; Then handed on board the milliner's maid: The barber and ballad-man longer delay'd For one had his ballads to sing and to play,

And the other some beards to take off by the way: At last they arriv'd, and the sailor along, ( But he was besotted — his dram had been strong —) The lawyer, Ezekiel, was last to appear,

With a cane in his hand and a quill at his ear. But, just as we all were prepar'd to embark, The wind came a-head, and the weather look'd dark: So, whilst they were busy in hoisting the sails

And trimming close aft’ to encounter the gales, Our seaman advis'd them to take in a reef As the vessel was light — but the skipper was deaf: “His boat was his own” — and he knew to a hair

The “worth of her freight,” and the “sail she could bear.” Then a storm coming on, we stow'd away snug, Some link'd with a lady, and some with a jug: Snipinda and Sam were inclining to sleep,

And the lawyer harangu'd on the risques of the deep. O'Bluster was busy in looking for squalls, And Cynthia discours'd upon dances and balls, And while the poor ballad-man gave us a song

The Frenchman complain'd that his stomach felt wrong. Arriving, at length at the end of this stage, We quitted our cabbin ( or rather our cage ) To the sign of the Anchor we then were directed,

Where captain O'Keef a fine turkey dissected; And Bryan O'Bluster made love to egg-nog, And pester'd the ladies to taste of his grog: Without it ( said Bryan ) I never can dine,

‘ Tis better, by far, than your balderdash wine, It braces the nerves and it strengthens the brain, A world — and no grog — is a prison of pain, And Man, the most wretched of all that are found

To creep in the dust, or to move on the ground! It is, of all physic, the best I have seen To keep out the cold, and to cut up the spleen — Here, madam — miss Cynthia —‘ tis good — you'll confess —

Now taste — and you'll wish you had been in my mess — With grog I'm as great as a king on his throne; The worst of all countries is — where there is none, New Holland, New Zealand — those islands accurs'd —

Here's health to the man that invented it first. Coop'd up in a waggon, the curtains let down, At three in the morning we drove out of town: A morning more dark I ne'er saw in my life,

And the fog you might almost have cut with a knife, It was a fit season for murders and rapes, For drunken adventures and narrow escapes:— So, with something to think of, but little to say,

The driver drove on, looking out for the way, ‘ Till we came to the brow of a horrible hill, Six miles on our road, when the cattle stood still — “Are you sure you have took the right road?” — queried Snip;

“I am” — said the driver — and crack'd with his whip. Then away ran the horses, but took the wrong road, And away went the waggon, with all its full load; Down, deep in a valley, roll'd over and over,

Fell the flying-machine, with its curtains and cover, Where shatter'd and shiver'd — no glimpse yet of day, A mass of destruction, together we lay! Then howlings were heard, that would frighten a stone,

And screeching, and screaming, and many a groan, The bruising of heads, and the breaking of shins, Contrition of heart, and confession of sins. First rose from his ruins tall captain O'Keef,

And call'd to Ezekiel, and begg'd for his brief: A writ he demanded, as soon as‘ twas day, And ask'd his advice, if a suit would not lay? Then felt for his sword, but chanc'd on a cane,

And rush'd at the stageman, to cleave him in twain. As fortune would have it, the stageman had fled, And Snip the whole vengeance receiv'd on his head; The staff had been whirl'd with so deadly a sweep

Poor Will in a moment was all in a heap: There was room to surmise that his senses were hurt, For, in spite of our bruises, he made us some sport: His head, he conceited, was made of new cheese;

And ask'd, if the sexton would give up his fees?— Then, rolling away on the side of the hill, With his head in a horse-pond, he lay very still: At last he bawl'd out — “I'm sick at my heart!

Come hither, companions, and see me depart! Snipinda, Snipinda!— alas, I must leave her — And all, for the sake of this villainous weaver, Who never would give me a moment of rest

‘ Till I left my dear shop-board, and thus am distrest! But a time will arrive ( if I deem not amiss ) When Slender, the weaver, will suffer for this — May his breeches, be always too big for his wear,

Or so narrow and scant as to torture his rear; May his waistcoat be ever too long or too short, And the skirts of his tunic not both of a sort;— And, when from this sorrowful jaunt you return,

Tell Doctor Sangrado‘ tis needless to mourn: Ah! tell him I firmly believ'd I was going Where people no longer are wed-ding and wooing, Where white linen stockings will ever be clean,

And sky-men are clad in the best of nankeen; Where with old Continental our debts we can pay, And a suit of best broad-cloth will last but a day; Where with pretty brass thimbles the streets are all pav'd,

And a remnant — if not a whole piece — shall be sav'd, Where cloth may be cabbag'd — and that without fear — And journeymen work — thirteen months to the year!” Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell,

And groping about to find where he fell, Exclaim'd, “I have got a sad bruise on one hip, But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip.” “Yes, yes” — answer'd Snip — “I'm preparing to go —

Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!” Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head, And whisper'd the captain, “how much he has bled!” ( For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle,

That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle. ) “Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill; And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will? Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words;

If I am his widow, I must have my thirds! But can you” — and here she reclin'd on his breast — “And can you resolve to forsake me distrest, Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love,

And leave me alone for the shop-boards above: Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?— When you are departed, ah! where shall I go? I shall then be a widow — forsaken and sad —

And where shall I find such another sweet lad? Who then will afford me a mint-water dram, Gallant me to meeting — and who will flog Sam?” By this time the story was currently spread,

And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,— “The taylor is dead beyond all relief! The taylor is dead,” cry'd captain O'Keef: “To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim,

Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!” “The taylor is dead” — ( the lawyer exclaim'd ) God speed him!—‘ tis better to die than be maim'd: If life is a race, as the learned pretend,

God help him! his racing is soon at an end: His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd; A creature he was, so attach'd to the world, So eager for money — ( I say it with grief )

He never consider'd the‘ fall of the leaf.’ He is come ( we may say ) to the end of his tether Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.— For the place where he's gone may we also prepare,

Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care, And fiddles — the finest that ever were seen, Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean. “The taylor is dead” ( said the company round )

“The taylor is dead” — the dark forests resound.— “He is dead!” — blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh — When the sailor bawl'd out — “By my soul it's a lie! The fellow has only a mind for some fun,

His blood is not cold, and his race is not run. His head, it is true, may have had a small shock: I'll bind it —‘ twill only be strapping a block: Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout!

Now — heave up his noddle, and strap it about! Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk — They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work.” The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,

And the taylor threw open his peepers once more. When the morning appear'd, it is horrid to tell What mischiefs the most of our crew had befel: A bundle lay here, and a budget lay there;

The Frenchman was fretting and pulling his hair, The horses were feeding about on the hill, And Snip, with his head on a hassock lay still, The driver beseech'd us the fault to excuse,

The night had been dark — and “he lost both his shoes” — Then he rais'd up his waggon, rejoicing to find That, by leaving the top and the curtains behind, We still might proceed — for the body was sound,

And the wheels, upon searching, uninjur'd all‘ round. But dull and dishearten'd we travell'd along, Our waggon dismantled, our harness all wrong: The lawyer was vext that we went a snail's pace,

And Cynthia was sure she had lost half her lace; While Bryan O'Bluster, who Snip had restor'd, Asserted, that Snip was the Jonas on board, And often declar'd, in his moments of glee,

“He would give him a souse, if he had him at sea.” At length, we arriv'd, with the marks of our fall, And halted to dine at the town of Road-Hall: Honest David has always a dish of the best,

But Snipinda declar'd there was nothing well drest — “And Snip ( she exclaim'd ) I would ask him to eat, But I know that he never could relish roast-meat: I think it were better to get him some Tea,

He always was fond of slop dinners, like me, But then he could never endure your Bohea — La! madam, is this the best tea that you keep? By the taste and the smell, you have purchas'd it cheap!

No Hyson or Congo to give a sick stranger! Poor man! I've no doubt but his life is in danger! “No doctor like Neptune for people like him, ( Quoth O'Bluster ) — his illness is merely a whim:

If I had him at sea, with the rest of our crew, He should dance to the tune of a bowl of Burgoo!” “From all that appears ( said captain O'Keef ) I judge he might venture to taste the roast beef,

Nay — I think I can guess, from the cast of his eye, He longs to have hold of the gooseberry pye!” “Why captain ( she cry'd ) would you kill the poor sinner? If he cannot have tea, he shall go without dinner!”

At length to the Ferry we safely arrive, Each thanking his genius he still was alive: Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms, The black on her face and the blue on her arms:

Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch, For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch: The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck, And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck,

He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh; And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye, Just adding, “how much he was vext at the heart That no one regarded the song-singing art:

Yet the town was in love with his music ( he said ) But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade; That affronts and neglect were forever his lot, And the lovers of music respected him — not;

He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains, But they were unwilling to purchase his strains, When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay, The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away.”

So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob, And pitied his fortune,— to live by the mob: Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches;

That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race Of poets are only promoted to place — He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown, Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown;

That a poet of genius ( all history shews ) Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse: And, though their productions were never once read, Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed.

Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise, Exclaiming, “The wherry is ready, my boys: The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight; Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!”

Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail, With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale: In plying to windward we delug'd our decks — O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks —

Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more, And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore; “And, if I was there ( said the faint-hearted swain ) No money should tempt me to travel again!

I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs, Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs! Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night, And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write;

A journey like this will attention attract, Related in metre, and known to be fact.” — Snipinda was sorry she ever left home — Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;—

Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas, And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease; Yet could n't help laughing at captain O'Keef, Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef:

“And, Bruin ( she said ) I am sick at my heart, Come hither, I pray you — and see me depart: What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route; Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!”

And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been, O'Bluster made love to a bottle of gin — Bob's ballads and poems lay scatter'd and torn Himself in the dumps and his visage forlorn;—

Snip lay with his head by the side of a pot, In doubt if his soul was departing or not, Complaining, and spewing, and cursing his luck — Then look'd at Snipinda — and call'd her his duck.

At last to relieve us, when thought of the least, The wind came about to the south of southeast, The barque that was buried in billows before Now flew like a gull by the Long-Island shore,

And gaining the port where we wish'd to arrive, Was safe in the bason — precisely at five. “The Babes in the wood was his favourite song, Or Barbara Allan, or Johnny Armstrong.”