Classic Poem

The Irene ducks and runs amuck
At all she meets on ocean bobbin':
Hard to the taffrail clutches Tuck:
There's little of the " cock' in Robin"!
Below, discussing pipes and beer,
And all that may and all that mayn't be,
St. Bernard says that he feels queer,
And queerer still feels Mrs. St. B.
James Parthenon of tempest tells,
Five jolly yachtsmen once were lost in:
Pales the red cheek of Tuck, as swells,
With Ocean's wrath, the gorge of Austin.
" Now, do you think, you Argue-nots,"
St. Bernard asks, " sea-sick was Jason?"
The jolly yachtsmen eye their cots:
Austin cries " Oh!" — and Tuck " A bason!"
St Bernard hurries on the deck;
Not long his chattering teeth have kept tune,
To waves that threat the Irene's wreck,
When one bears off his pipe to Neptune!
Then Tuck, half doubting he's afloat,
Rolls up, with eyes all greeny-sheeny:
Clutches St. Bernard by the throat: —
" Tell me! did Cubitt build the Irene ?"
— Five jolly yachtsmen! Yachtsmen five!
And have you seen five jolly yachtsmen?
If they're not dead, why, they're alive: —
They're sprawling mid the pipes and pots, men!
A ghostly yacht at night you'll see
Come sailing up the British Channel
A poet and a Friar there be
On board: the latter frock'd in flannel.
Like Lucifers with Lobsters dash'd,
The hue upon their cheeks and noses.
The Friar cries loud: " Our fate we've hash'd,
Why sail'd we not i' the time of Roses?
There was a place called Gordon Street,
" A planet known as Francatelli:"