“The great Club’s doors are opened wide, And I would fare within:―― The members met, the House is set To spend the nation’s tin.” * * * * * Confound the modern shipowners―― The fiends that I came across! For a goodly bit she was underwrit―― And they wished the vessel’s loss. * * * * * The western wave was all a-blaze, The day was well-nigh done; Almost departed from our gaze, Faded the blood-red sun―― When a strange shape from out the haze Was seen by every one! And lo! the sun was flecked with bars, Through which appeared he pale, As, through the dungeon-grate, the tars Who declined with us to sail. Alas! cried I, and my teeth I ground, I see how their craft employed’s―― To send out a ship ill-found, unsound, Because she’s insured at Lloyd’s. I saw her ribs, where redly through The sun shone like a fire. Is that shipowner all a do? And is that death, and can the two Against poor tars conspire? His ships are sped――they’re booked at sea, He looks, that fellow, for gold. He’s on them a good insurance fee, And deuce a bit for the crew cares he And their dangers manifold. The phantom bark made never a sound, And the twain were casting dice; “Let the crew be drowned――for the sum is round,” Said he, “and it’s worth the price.” The night was calm, though no stars were out, The leak sprung in the dark―― ’Mid unheard horror, and hopeless shout, Down went the fated bark! * * * * * How many lives were that time lost I truly do not know;―― But the underwriters paid the cost,―― And the owner won that throw! * * * * * Farewell, farewell, but this I tell To thee, M.P. distressed, That you ought to hang one gambling swell To encourage all the rest! He preyeth best, whose interest ’Tis to have his vessels founder; It doesn’t compass his ends to invest In making those vessels sounder! * * * * * The mariner, who had been drowned, Quitted that Senator;―― And our M.P. in thought profound He trod the House’s floor. He backed-up Mr. Plimsoll’s plan To aid our tars forlorn:―― A better and a wiser man, He did the House adorn. _Fun._ March, 1873. ―――― THE FIGHT OF THE FIFTH NOVEMBER. _A Tale of the “Town and Gown.”_ It is a Proctor’s awful form, ’Tis Undergraduates three; He marshalleth and doggeth them, He stops them suddenlie: He holds them with a ready hand, “Your names? your names?” quoth he, “Hold off! unhand us, saucy loon!” Eftsoons they turn to flee.