Old tars in the trade, who related old tales,

And drank, and blew clouds that were"" very like whales."

Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat,

Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat;
And how gun-harpoons into fashion had got,
And if they were meant for the gun-whale or not?

At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest,
By fancies cetaceous and drink well possessed,
When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,

He heard something blow through two holes in its head!

"A start!" muttered Ben, in the Grampus afloat, And made but one jump from the deck to the boat! "Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone,

I look on that whale as already my own!"

Then groping about by the light of the moon,
He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;
A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,
And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!

"Starn all!" he sang out, as you care for your lives,Starn all! as you hope to return to your wives,

Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!

Well done, my old iron; I've sent you right home!"

And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt upright

The leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,
And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,
As only a fish out of water could do.

"Starn all!" echoed Ben, with a movement aback,
But too slow to escape from the creature's attack;
If flippers it had, they were furnished with nails,-
"You willin, I'll teach you that women ain't whales!"

"Avast!" shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech,
"I've heard a whale spouting, but here is a speech!"

The Pilgrims and the Peas

"A-spouting, indeed!-very pretty," said she;
"But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!

"To go to pretend to take me for a fish!

You great polar bear-but I know what you wish;
You're sick of a wife that your hankering balks,
You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!"

"O dearest," cried Ben, frightened out of his life, "Don't think I would go for to murder a wife

621

I must long have bewailed!" But she only cried, "Stuff!” Don't name it, you brute, you've be-whaled me enough!"

"Lord, Polly!" said Ben, "such a deed could I do? I'd rather have murdered all Wapping than you! Come, forgive what is past." "O you monster!" she cried, "It was none of your fault that it passed off one side!"

However, at last she inclined to forgive;

"But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live,-
If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,
Take a whale for a wife,-not a wife for a whale!"
Thomas Hood.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,
Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum, famous in old popish times,
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;
A sort of apostolic salt,

Which popish parsons for its powers exalt,

For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,

Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried-
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,

He met his brother rogue about half-way,

Hobbling, with outstretch'd arms and bended knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas;

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!"

"Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke;

My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear:

As for Loretto, I shall not go there;

No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,

For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, pray explain

How 'tis that you are not in pain?

What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes?
Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,

Tam O'Shanter

That, just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas."

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John Wolcot.

TAM O'SHANTER

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors neibors meet,
As market days are wearin' late,
And folk begin to tak the gate:

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And gettin' fou and unco happy,
We thinkna on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonny lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae Nevember till October,
Ae market day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller

Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,

Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon!

Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:-Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither-
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious
The Souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle—
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!
Or like the snowfall in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,

Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;