Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the pipeclayed hide, And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the tide; And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the Queen's, And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse Marines. So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they whipped their wheels like mad, When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's Bill, by Gad!" Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through breach and brace, And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test takes place. Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed free, And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the _P. M. G._ But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and weft, And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle left Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked sheerstrake And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of Francis Drake. So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the harbour-bar, And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning star. And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of day; For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern main, Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the brand of Cain. And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo Ever they tell the tale anew Of the chase for the kipperling swag; How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ They broached each other like a whiskey-vat, And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag. 5. A BALLAD OF A BUN. (AFTER J. D.) 'I am sister to the mountains now, And sister to the sun and moon.' 'Heed not belletrist jargon.' JOHN DAVIDSON. From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide-- That is to say, all through the year-- Her patient pen was occupied With songs and tales of pleasant cheer. But still her talent went to waste Like flotsam on an open sea; She never hit the public taste, Or knew the knack of Bellettrie. Across the sounding City's fogs There hurtled round her weary head The thunder of the rolling logs; "The Critics' Carnival!" she said. Immortal prigs took heaven by storm, Prigs scattered largesses of praise; The work of both was rather warm; "This is," she said, "the thing that pays!" Sharp envy turned her wine to blood-- I mean it turned her blood to wine; And this resolve came like a flood-- "The cake of knowledge must be mine!