Do you want to know the latest thing To make a true tar dull? Well, that’s the _Poly_, this precious _Poly_, And darn her dirty hull! Come, you’ll see the horror a lyin’ there, Like a porpoise heavy with grog; Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns, Her hull like a lifeless log. Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat, Low down, no sail unfurled; _Poly_, grim _Poly_, Our nautical folly, The ugliest craft in the world! Do you want a toast to-night, my lads, Afore we says good-bye? Well, here’s short life to the lumbering _Poly_, And blarm her hulk, says I. Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads, Drink in sepulchral tones: “May a storm soon send this confounded _Poly_ To supper with David Jones.” Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat, When the waves in heaps are hurled? _Poly_, black _Poly_, Fraud melancholy, The ugliest craft in the world! _Punch._ July 23, 1881. ――――:o:―――― THE DEATH OF NELSON. From the Opera of “The Americans.” RECITATIVE O’er Nelson’s tomb, with silent grief oppressed, Britannia mourns her hero, now at rest; But those bright laurels ne’er shall fade with years, Whose leaves are watered by a nation’s tears. AIR. Twas in Trafalgar’s bay We saw the Frenchmen lay; Each heart was bounding then. We scorn’d the foreign yoke, Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men Our Nelson mark’d them on the wave, Three cheers our gallant seamen gave, Nor thought of home and beauty. Along the line this signal ran―― “England expects that every man This day will do his duty.” * * * * * England confess’d that every man That day had done his duty. S. J. ARNOLD. ―――― THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD. _Recitative._ O’er Thompson’s nose, by Swiggins’ fist imprest, Britannia weeps,――that face with bandage dress’d, But that bright nose shall never fade with years, Whose tip, once blue, now blue and red appears. ’Twas in the Spithead Bay We saw Bill Swiggins lay, He loudly swearing, then; We owed him for a joke Which at the British Oak, He levell’d at our men―― Our Thompson mark’d the wily knave, Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave, Nor thought of home or duty; Before the shine this signal ran, “We owe a grudge to that ’ere man; This day we’ll spoil his beauty.”