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And the sparks in fiery eddy,
That whirled from the chimney neck:
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck,

Strange company we harboured;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered,
Jews black, and brown, and grey ;
With terror it would seize ye,
And make

your
souls

uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did nought but scratch and pray:
Their dirty children puking,
Their dirty saucepans cooking,
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.

To starboard Turks and Greeks were,
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were,
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted,
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted,
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.

And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling,

Went the brave Iberia bowling, Before the break of dayWhen a Squall upon a sudden, Came o'er the waters scudding; And the clouds began to gather, And the sea was lashed to lather, And the lowering thunder grumbled, And the lightening jumped and tumbled, And the ship and all the ocean, Woke up in wild commotion. Then the wind set up a howling, And the poodle dog a yowling, And the cocks began a crowing, And the old cow raised a lowing, As she heard the tempest blowing; And fowls and geese did cackle, And the cordage and the tackle Began to shriek and crackle; And the spray dashed o’er the funnels, And down the deck in runnels; And the rushing water soaks all, From the seaman in the fo’ksal, To the stokers, whose black faces Peer out of their bed-places ; And the captain he was bawling, And the sailors pulling, hauling; And the quarter-deck tarpauling Was shivered in the squalling; And the passengers awaken, Most pitifully shaken; And the steward jumps up, and hastens For the necessary basins. Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,

As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrow-bones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And, shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sung, “ Allah! Illah!
“Mashallah Bismillah!”
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the feas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the Main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine;
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches,
In a hundred thousand stenches.

a

This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,
And which all will well remember

D

On the 28th September;
When a Prussian Captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonislied,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wordering cried “ Potztausend,
“ Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend ?”
And looked at Captain Lewis
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle,
And oft we've thought hereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain storm could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gaily he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And, as the tempest caught her,
Cried, “ George! some Brandy and Water !"
And when its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And, as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.

Thackeray.

21.-THE MINSTREL.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who
sung

of Border chivalry ;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuart's throne;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

Scott.

22. — ISAAC ASHFORD.
A NOBLE peasant, Isaac Ashford, died,
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion’d and his soul serene:

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