English

Sir William Joynson-Hicks
Could only count up to six,
Which was rather a wrecker
For his hopes of the Exchequer.

How the Emperor Jovian
Would have revelled in The Harrovian !
And can't you see Diocletian
Roaring over The Fettesian ?

IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT .

I am a jolly fisherman,
 I catch what I can get,
Still going on my betters' plan,
 All's fish that comes to net;

Fish, just like men, I've often caught,
 Crabs, gudgeons, poor John, Codfish,
And many a time to market brought
 A dev'lish sight of odd fish.

Thus all are fishermen through life,
 With weary pains and labour,
This baits with gold, and that a wife,
 And all to catch his neighbour;

Then praise the jolly fisherman,

It is understood that Job
Never read The Globe ;
But nothing could be higher than
His opinion of Leviathan .

IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.


Yanko he tell, and he no lie,
We near one pretty brook,
Him flowing hair, him lovely yiel
Sweetly on Orra look:

Him see big world fine warrior men,
Grand cruel king love blood;
Great king! but Yanko say what den
If he no honest good?

Virtue in foe be virtue still,
Fine stone be found in mine,
The sun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him shine.

II.

You broder him, him broder you,

It maddened Dean Inge
To be asked not to sing,
And there was some savage biting
When they tried to stop him reciting.

IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT.

Smiling grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker,
Though dangers around him
Unite, to confound him,
He braves them, and tips off his grog.
'Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
The sailor's sheet anchor is grog.

What though he to a friend in trust
His prize money convey,
Who to his bond of faith unjust,

OR, ONCE A LOVER AND ALWAYS A LOVER .

As quiet monarchs, that on peaceful thrones,
In sports and revels, long had reign'd like drones,
Rousing at length, reflect, with guilt and shame,
That not one stroke had yet been giv'n for fame;
Wars they denounce, and, to redeem the past,
To bold attempts and rugged labours haste:
Our poet so, with like concern, reviews
The youthful follies of a love-sick Muse:
To am'rous toils, and to the silent grove,
To Beauty's snares, and to deceitful Love,

Great god of Sleep, since it must be
That we must give some hours to thee,
Invade me not while the free bowl
Glows in my cheeks, and warms my soul;
That be my only time to snore
When I can laugh and drink no more.
Short, very short, be then thy reign,
For I 'm haste to laugh and drink again.

But, O! if melting in my arms
In some soft dream, with all her charms,
The nymph belov'd should then surprise,
And grant what waking she denies;
Then, gentle Slumber! pr'y thee stay,
Slowly, ah! slowly bring the day;

Now while the night her sable vaile hath spred,
And silently her restie coach doth rolle,
Rowsing with her from Tethys' azure bed
Those starrie nymphes which dance about the pole;
While Cynthia, in purest cipres cled,
The Latmian shepheard in a trance descries,
And whiles lookes pale from hight of all the skies,
Whiles dyes her beauties in a bashfull red;
While sleepe, in triumph, closed hath all eyes,
And birds and beastes a silence sweet doe keepe,
And Protevs' monstrous people in the deepe,