until he was a league from shore, when, seizing him by the shoulders, and spinning him round upon the deck, they said he was now at liberty to pursue his voyage without further molestation. So mortifying an adventure he did not like to hear recited, but has in this print recorded the circumstance which led to it. In one corner he has given a portrait of himself, making the drawing; and to show the moment of arrest, the hand of a serjeant is upon his shoulder. Mr. Hogarth's friend Forest soon afterwards wrote the following cantata, which contains so whimsical a description of the principal figures, that I make no apology for inserting it:-- THE ROAST BEEF AT THE GATE OF CALAIS. RECITATIVE. 'Twas at the gate of Calais, Hogarth tells, Where sad despair and famine always dwells; A meagre Frenchman, Madame Grandsire's cook, As home he steer'd, his carcase that way took, Bending beneath the weight of fam'd sirloin, On whom he often wished in vain to dine; Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rosy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; And when he first beheld the greasy load, His benediction on it he bestow'd; And while the solid fat his fingers press'd, He lick'd his chops, and thus the knight address'd: AIR. O rare roast beef, lov'd by all mankind, Was I but doom'd to have thee, Well dress'd, and garnish'd to my mind, And swimming in thy gravy; Not all thy country's force combined, Should from my fury save thee! Renown'd sirloin! ofttimes decreed The theme of English ballad, E'en kings on thee have deign'd to feed, Unknown to Frenchman's palate; Then how much must thy taste exceed Soup-meagre, frogs, and salad! RECITATIVE. A half-starv'd soldier, shirtless, pale, and lean, Who such a sight before had never seen, Like Garrick's frighted Hamlet gaping stood, And gaz'd with wonder at the British food; His morning mess forsook the friendly bowl, And in small streams along the pavement stole; He heav'd a sigh, which gave his heart relief, And thus in plaintive tones declar'd his grief: AIR. Ah, _sacre Dieu_! vat do I see yonder, Dat look so tempting red and vite? Begar, it is the roast beef from Londre! O grant to me one letel bite. But to my guts if you give no heeding, And cruel fate this boon denies, In kind compassion to my pleading, Return, and let me feast mine eyes. RECITATIVE. His fellow guard, of right Hibernian clay, Whose brazen front his country did betray, From Tyburn's fatal tree had hither fled, By honest means to get his daily bread: Soon as the well-known prospect he espy'd, In blubb'ring accents dolefully he cried: AIR.