_Tim._ Master mate, my call obey, Rouse yourself once more, and say, If in this ship a poor starved sinner May sup; to day I had no dinner. _Mate._ Sure, when you were on deck, Sir, you heard Our cook a-scraping pots to leeward: A sooty seaman blusters there, Who never comb’d his lamp-black hair, Nor scrub’d his angry brow, nor pared The bristles of his shaggy beard. He by your chop or steak shall sit, Hissing on gridiron, or on spit, Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, I beg you, to repose. _Tim._ Once yet again awake, and tell us Who are those surly ragged fellows; Why each about so madly hops, Howling, and tugging tarry ropes; Why at the slacken’d cords they swear, And fluttering sails that flap in air: Tell me whence this hubbub rose, Then I leave thee to repose. _Mate._ Ha! no traveller art thou; Fresh-water fiend, I smoke thee now As ignorant a rogue as ever―― _Tim._ No mate genteel, polite, and clever, Art thou; nor ever wert a sailor; But, as I rather guess, a tailor. _Mate._ Hie thee hence, and thank my mercy, Or rather drowsiness, that spares ye. Hence! or I’ll drive you; for no fellow Shall break my sleep with his vile bellow, Till this cold pitchy cloud of night Melt in the warmth of morning light; That is, till four o’clock, or three, Sir, What, won’t you go!――――Here, Cæsar, Cæsar. _Desunt caetera._ ――――:o:―――― THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.[67] _By the Muse of the Museum._ (_Slightly altered from Gray._) Owen’s praise demands my song. Owen wise and Owen strong, But in spite of Owen stout, All the beasts must toddle out. Out with weazles, ferrets, skunks, Elephants, come pack your trunks; You no longer dwell with us, Yawning hippopotamus. Dusty, straddling, split giraffe, You have stayed too long by half, Go and take some nice fresh air With that grim-eyed Polar bear. “Fish, fish, fish,” your Duty calls Somewhere else than in these walls, Flounders, you must go, that’s flat, With the salmon and the sprat. Cloud of birds, ascend and fly, Migrate to some kinder sky Perky, shiny, glittering things, Leave the wing that holds your wings. Fossil Man, you too must pack, Take your slab, Sir, on your back, Or if you’d prefer a ride, Mount the Mammoth by your side. Eggs, be blowed, if you’d not break, You your eggsit now must make; Yes, your yolk must turn to legs, Yes, as sure as eggs is eggs. All those myriad butterflies, Pins and all, must please to rise, We can use in other ways Miles of camphor-scented trays. Diamonds black, and diamonds bright, Henceforth charm suburban sight, Follow beasts and birds and bones, All you tons of labelled stones. From that yellowish liquor take, Every coil, you spotted snake, “Bonny beetles in a row,” Stir your stumps, for you must go.