Strait crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen’rous strife, Sir, Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen’s life, Sir; They drag’d him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history, For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery. Tears glisten’d, Sir, in every eye, from the parson to the barber, When, swoln to thrice his natural _size_, they drag’d him from the harbour. Now having roll’d and rubb’d him well an hour upon the beach, Sir, He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, Sir; Quoth he, “An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, Sirs, Those born to prove an _airy doom_, will surely never be drown’d, Sirs. For fate, Sirs, has us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber; Or surely I had breathed my last this morning in the harbour. Resolv’d to cross the _River_, Sirs, a Sculler did I get into, May Jonah’s ill-luck be mine, another when I step into! Just when we’d reach’d the deepest part, O horror! there it founders, And down went poor Pillgarlick amongst the Crabs and Flounders! But fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, Ordain’d I should not breathe my last, this morning in the harbour. I’ve broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, Sirs, Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, Sirs, I’ve been circumstanc’d most oddly, whilst contesting hard a race, Sirs, But ne’er was half so frighten’d, as amongst the Crabs and Plaise, Sirs. O fate, Sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber, Or certainly I’d breath’d my last, this morning in the harbour. My friends, for your exertions, my heart o’erflows with gratitude, O may it prove the last time, you find me in that latitude; God knows with what mischances dire, the future may abound, Sirs, But I hope and trust I’m one of those, not fated to be drown’d, Sirs.” Thus ended his oration, Sir, I had it from the barber; And dripping, like some _River God_, he slowly left the harbour. Ye men of _North_ and _South Shields_ too, God send ye all prosperity, May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea; Unrivall’d in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, Sirs, And every hour, fresh wonders, your eyes and mouths expand, Sirs. And long may _Stephen K----_ live, and never may the barber Mistake him for a monster more, deep floundering in the harbour. SONG, _On the Flight of the young Crows, from Newcastle Exchange; with their Address to the Corporation._