Sometimes a hand-sometimes a little shoe-
Sometimes a skirt-sometimes a hank of hair
Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view,
Sometimes a knee-sometimes a back was bare-
At last a frightful summerset he threw
Right on the shingles. Any one could swear
The lad was dead-without a chance of perjury,
And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown,
Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,
And after venting Pity's sigh and groan,
Then curiosity began with her fit;

And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!
'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit !
And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies,
We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles !

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,
Providing in this world he was to have
A lordship over luck, by whose exertion

He might control the course of cards and brave

All throws of dice,-but on a sea excursion

The juggling demon, in his usual vein,

Seized the last cast-and Nicked him in the main!

LINES TO A LADY

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempests make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,— A wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth,
Making a midnight meal of he and she;
Go where the lion in his hunger howleth,
And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,
Or lies along at full length like a tree,
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,
And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth
In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,
And, like a woman, all she can revealeth,
And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,
And parasols of straw where hats should be,
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,

And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills,
And tall bamboos-may none bamboozle thee!
Go gaze upon their elephants and castles,
And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier,
And parch the peppered palate like a pea,
Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier,
And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,
Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay,
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,
And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,
Go to the land of pagod and rupee,

Where every black will be your slave and servant,
And think of me!

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

WELL! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,

To take nothing at last by my motions!
I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish

To inveigle the fish,

To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish ;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,

And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook

With attention I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice

Of the "Council of Nice,"

And rejected their "Diet of Worms," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,

Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought,

I had better have bought

A good rope that was used to Jack-ketching!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,

It is vain in this river to search then ;
I may wait till it's night,

Without any bite

And at roost-time have never a Perch then!

No Roach can I meet with-no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,

And I fear it is not

"Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!
What then can I deem

Of so fishless a stream

But that 'tis-like St. Mary's-Ottery!

For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton's own showing-
But a fisherman feels

Little prospect of Eels,

In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,

Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint-

Let the Fancy just paint

What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,

While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell— So, wet to the skin,

I'll e'en back to my inn,

Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!