BELAYE would admit that his men were of no great use to him, "But then," he would say, "there is little to do on a gunboat trim. I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too-- And it _is_ such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew." I saw him every day! How the happy moments sped! Reef topsails! Make all taut! There's dirty weather ahead! (I do not mean that tempests threatened the _Hot Cross Bun_: In _that_ case, I don't know whatever we _should_ have done!) After a fortnight's cruise we put into port one day, And off on leave for a week went kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE, And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life), LIEUTENANT BELAYE returned to his ship with a fair young wife! He up, and he says, says he, "Oh, crew of the _Hot Cross Bun_, Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!" And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits, And all fell down in so many separate fainting fits. And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me, Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor's blue array, To follow the shifting fate of kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE! It's strange to think that _I_ should ever have loved young men, But I'm speaking of ten years past--I was barely sixty then; And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow! And poor POLL PINEAPPLE'S eyes have lost their lustre now! [Illustration] [Illustration] THE FICKLE BREEZE Sighing softly to the river Comes the loving breeze, Setting nature all a-quiver, Rustling through the trees! And the brook in rippling measure Laughs for very love, While the poplars, in their pleasure, Wave their arms above! River, river, little river, May thy loving prosper ever. Heaven speed thee, poplar tree. May thy wooing happy be! Yet, the breeze is but a rover, When he wings away, Brook and poplar mourn a lover! Sighing well-a-day! Ah, the doing and undoing That the rogue could tell! When the breeze is out a-wooing, Who can woo so well? Pretty brook, thy dream is over For thy love is but a rover! Sad the lot of poplar trees, Courted by the fickle breeze! [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TWO OGRES Good children, list, if you're inclined, And wicked children too-- This pretty ballad is designed Especially for you. Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold-- Each _traits_ distinctive had: The younger was as good as gold, The elder was as bad. A wicked, disobedient son Was JAMES M'ALPINE, and A contrast to the elder one, Good APPLEBODY BLAND.