Classic Poem

I' VE a yacht in the Island, the Sea Pink, of Ryde,
Not a craft in the club can be better;
I own, when she goes very much on one side,
I'm afraid that the wind will upset her.
I belong to the Club, which is very genteel —
We ne'er let a Scamp or a Shab in;
But though it's the fashion, I own that I feel
More at ease in my Cab than my Cabin!

'Tis true, I know little of nautical ways,
And less about charts of the ocean;
And what's rather odd, on the quietest days
I always grow queer with the motion!
I've sunk a large sum on the toy, and 'tis well
If the toy and I don't sink together;
Oh! talking of sinking — nobody can tell
What I suffer in very bad weather!

When I sigh for the land, sailors talk of " sea-room, "
All sense of propriety lacking;
And they gave me a knock-me-down blow with the boom,
T'other day, in the hurry of tacking.
I sported one morning a water-proof cap,
And a Mackintosh — all India-rubber;
And a sailor cried, " Jack, look at that 'ere queer chap,
Did you ever see such a land-lubber? "

What a bother the wind is! one day we were caught
In a bit of a breeze in the offing;
And we tack'd, and we tack'd, till I verily thought
Every tack was a nail in my coffin!
Cried one, " Never fear, we shall soon reach the shore, "
(To me that word reach is pathetic!)
I've heard of perpetual Blisters before,
But I've an eternal emetic!

The Captain and Crew are of course in my pay,
I expect them to pay me attention;
But they push me about, and they now and then say
Little words it would shock me to mention!
The smell of the tar I detest, and I think
That the sea breeze quite spoils the complexion,
But the ladies all say, when they've seen the Sea Pink,
That her Owner's the Pink of Perfection.