A black man applies Marrens Jet shoe polish to his face. THE REAL BLACK REVIVER. Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts—thort of Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn’t “The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?” Man laff’d, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant halliards. 1 o’clock.—Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook—find I labored under a groce mistake—they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes. When I beheld the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to heave-too, I cuddn’t help repeting the varse of the old song—which fitted my case egsactly:— “There’s the capt’n he is our kimmander, There’s the bos’n and all the ship’s crew, There’s the married men as well as the single, Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through.” However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship—and, my wiskers! how she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a lock of her air when I was a leaving of the key. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in my stommik, and had nothing to rite on but my chest. I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of “Willy Reilly:”— Oakum to me33. The nautical mode of writing—“Oh! come to me.”—PRINTER’S DEVIL., ye sailors bold, Wot plows upon the sea; To you I mean for to unfold My mournful histo-ree. So pay attention to my song, And quick-el-ly shall appear, How innocently, all along, I vos in-weigle-ed here. One night, returnin home to bed, I walk’d through Pim-li-co, And, twigging of the Palass, sed, “I’m Jones and In-i-go.” But afore I could get out, my boys Pollise-man 20 A, He caught me by the corderoys, And lugged me right a-way. My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and On Jonny Russ-all-so, That forc’d me from my native land Across the vaves to go-o-oh. But all their spiteful arts is wain, My spirit down to keep; I hopes I’ll soon git back again, To take another peep.