Such was old Brentford's honest testament, He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two. THE WHITE SQUALL. On deck, beneath the awning, I dozing lay and yawning; It was the gray of dawning, Ere yet the sun arose; And above the funnel's roaring, And the fitful wind's deploring, I heard the cabin snoring With universal nose. I could hear the passengers snorting-- I envied their disporting-- Vainly I was courting The pleasure of a doze! So I lay, and wondered why light Came not, and watched the twilight, And the glimmer of the skylight, That shot across the deck; And the binnacle pale and steady, And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, And the sparks in fiery eddy That whirled from the chimney neck. In our jovial floating prison There was sleep from fore to mizzen, And never a star had risen The hazy sky to speck. Strange company we harbored, We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered-- Jews black, and brown, and gray; With terror it would seize ye, And make your souls uneasy, To see those Rabbis greasy, Who did naught 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 day--