――――:o:―――― THE DESCENT OF ODIN. The following Parody of Gray’s “Descent of Odin” was written by James Hay Beattie, son of James Beattie, L.L.D., author of “The Minstrel.” Young Beattie was born in 1768 and died in 1790. In 1794, Dr. Beattie printed “Essays and Fragments in Prose and Verse” by his son, but only for private circulation. Young Beattie had a clerical friend who made a sea voyage from Aberdeen to Rotherhithe, and suffered therefrom as described in THE DESCENT OF TIMOTHY. Tim crawl’d on board; no phiz e’er sadder; Stepp’d backward down the coal-black ladder; Then twisting sidelong, like a crab, in, Stagger’d into the after cabin. Him spied the dog of Newfoundland, That by a bulk-head chanced to stand; His chaps, whence fat and froth distill’d, With well-gnaw’d bones of bull-beef fill’d. Straight with neck upstretch’d he howls, Eyes that glare, and throat that growls, And with vociferations vain Stuns the poor preacher’s dizzy brain. Onward his tottering Reverence hitches, The deck beneath him rolls and pitches, Till from its shelf an empty keg Down dancing drives against his leg. Pensive on a cask of gin He sat, and stroked his aching shin; While near him snored in drunken state The carcase of the slumbering mate. Facing to a starboard beam Tim put to flight the seaman’s dream, Discharging thrice, in accents dread, Yells that almost might wake the dead; Till the toss’d blankets part asunder, And forth these sullen grumblings thunder. _Mate._ What rascal with his thumps and screaming Dares break the quiet of my dreaming? Whose hand is this that pulls my head, Labouring to lug me out of bed? These ears have heard for weeks together The long, long roar of wintry weather, Pumps, waves, ropes rattling, tempest squalling; But such a pinching and a bawling―― Zounds! I believe he’ll twist my neck―― On deck, there, ho! ye dogs on deck, What means this execrable yelling? Have ye let all the fiends of Hell in? _Tim._ A traveller I, to thee unknown, An honest man’s and woman’s son, By hunger, thirst, and sickness undone, And bound to Redriff first, then London. But whose is that mug, pray? and spread, For whom yon comfortable bed? _Mate._ The bed’s our Captain’s bed, d’ye see―― I wish you’d let a body be―― The mug, you mean that has the grog in? That, master, is the captain’s noggin. He, good soul, must have his potion: Thirst can reach the sons of ocean. Unwilling I my lips unclose; Leave me, leave me, to repose. _Tim._ Once again my call obey, Master mate, awake, and say, Which way I to bed may go; Pray have ye one for me or no? _Mate._ There on the floor mattress and bolster are, Who wish for more may ask the upholsterer. Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me, to repose.