And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:

Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:

""Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.

The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" 217

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we draw'd a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made:

Then our appetite with the midshipmite,
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo's'n tight,
And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook, he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'

I'm boiled if I die, my friend, quoth I;

And Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, "Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will-cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell,

'It will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell!'

"And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a vessel in sight I see.

"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,

But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have which is to say:

"Oh! I am cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy Brig,
And a bo's'n tight and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"

William S. Gilbert.

The Sea-Mew

219

H

THE SEA-MEW.

ow joyously the young sea-mew
Lay dreaming on the waters blue,
Whereon our little bark had thrown
A little shade, the only one,
But shadows ever man pursue.

Familiar with the waves and free
As if their own white foam were he,
His heart upon the heart of ocean
Lay learning all its mystic motion,
And throbbing to the throbbing sea.

We were not cruel, yet did sunder
His white wing from the blue waves under,
And bound it while his fearless eyes
Shone up to ours in calm surprise,
As deeming us some ocean wonder.

We bore our ocean bird unto
A grassy place where he might view
The flowers that curtsey to the bees,
The waving of the tall green trees,
The falling of the silver dew.

But flowers of earth were pale to him
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim;
And when earth's dew around him lay,
He thought of ocean's wingèd spray,
And his eye waxed sad and dim.

The green trees round him only made
A prison with their darksome shade,
And drooped his wing, and mourned he
For his own boundless glittering sea-
Albeit he knew not they could fade.

He lay down in his grief to die,
(First looking to the sea-like sky
That hath no waves,) because, alas!
Our human touch did on him pass,
And, with our touch, our agony.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Τ

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

HE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth.