Should ever cruel fate decree, That we, alas! should sever’d be, I’ll lay me down and die with thee―― My Whiskers. _The Penny Belle Assemblée_, October 26, 1833. ――――:o:―――― “MY YOT.” (_A confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly “in it” after all._) What makes me deem I’m of Viking blood (Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot), A briny slip of the British brood? My Yot! What makes me rig me in curious guise, Like a kind of a sort of――I dont know what, And talk sea-slang, to the world’s surprise? My Yot! What makes me settle my innermost soul On winning a purposeless silver pot And walk with a (very much) nautical roll? My Yot! What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance――which others must tot―― And awfully nervous in sudden squalls? My Yot! What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way? My Yot! What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale, (Though rather than own it I’d just be shot) When the _Fay_ in the wave-crests dips her sails? My Yot! What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue? My Yot! What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk? My Yot! What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To “try the fun”――which I know’s all rot―― And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends? My Yot! What makes me, in short, an egregious ass, A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass? My Yot! _Punch_, August 28, 1880. [Illustration] YOUR FRIEND. BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. Who borrows all your ready cash, And with it cuts a mighty dash, Proving the lender weak and rash? Your Friend! Who finds out every secret fault, Misjudges every word and thought, And makes you pass for worse than naught? Your Friend! Who wins your money at deep play, Then tells you that the world doth say, “’Twere wise from clubs you kept away?” Your Friend! Who sells you, for the longest price, Horses, a dealer in a trice Would find unsound, and full of vice? Your Friend!