By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing, But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer. “O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “It’s anything but funny; I’ll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my Father’s money!” And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing place, His wrath was turned to swearing. For by the lightning’s angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover! “Come back, come back,” he cried in woe. Across the stormy water, “But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, Oh! my daughter!” Twas vain, they reached the other shore, (Such dooms the Fates assign us), The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there, _minus_. From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854. ―――― LAMBETH FERRY. A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town Cried “Boatman do not tarry: I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown To row me over with Mary.” “Now who be he vould cross the Thames Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?” “Vy Billy Downey is my name, And this is Black Joe’s Daughter. “Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys! An hour we’ve run away, man! Should they catch us they’d make a noise, And my poor back vould pay, man.” Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull; Jump in my boat, be jolly; It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull, But for your charming Polly. “And so help me tater, the darlen creetur, Though in danger you have brought her, But if it should rain both cats and dogs, I’ll row you o’er the vater.” And then the vind it howled apace, The rain vas fast a pattering. They stared in each other’s face As they stood there a chattering. And still as the rain made more noise, And as the vind blow’d hoarser, They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys As if they vos coming closer. “Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said, “Though the veather be ever so cold, man, I’d rather meet a vatery bed Than meet my angry old man.” The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore, They pulled away, ahoy! sir, Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand, They run against a buoy, sir. My eyes! how the wild waves did roar, Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying, Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore, Ven he begun a-crying.