With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter; The Fishmongers’ grand boat, but not for butter, The Goldsmiths’ glorious galley,-- Of course you see the Lord Mayor’s coach aquatic, With silken banners that the breezes fan, In gold all glowing, And men in scarlet rowing, Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic; Of course you see all this, O Sister Anne? “No, I see no such thing! I only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf, With two coal lighters fasten’d to a ring: And, dim as ghosts, Two little boys are jumping over posts; And something farther off, That’s rather like the shadow of a dog, And all beyond is fog. If there be any thing so fine and bright, To see it I must see by second sight. Call this a Show? It is not worth a pin! I see no barges row, No banners blow; The show is merely a gallanty-show, Without a lamp or any candle in.” But sister Anne, my dear, Although you cannot see, you still may hear? Of course you hear, I’m very sure of that, The “Water parted from the Sea” in C, Or “Where the Bee sucks,” set in B; Or Huntsman’s chorus from the Freyschutz frightful, Or Handel’s Water Music in A flat. Oh music from the water comes delightful! It sounds as no where else it can: You hear it first, In some rich burst, Then faintly sighing, Tenderly dying Away upon the breezes, Sister Anne. “There is no breeze to die on; And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps, Could never cut their way with ev’n three sharps Through such a fog as this, you may rely on. I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum, Like a very muffled double drum, And then a something faintly shrill, Like Bartlemy Fair’s old buz at Pentonville. And now and then hear a pop, As if from Pedley’s Soda Water shop. I’m almost ill with the strong scent of mud, And, not to mention sneezing, My cough is, more than usual, teasing; I really fear that I have chill’d my blood, O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!” ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE. BY DORCAS DOVE. And is it thus ye welcome Peace, From Mouths of forty-pounding Bores? Oh cease, exploding Cannons, cease! Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores! Not so the quiet Queen should come; But like a Nurse to still our Fears, With Shoes of List, demurely dumb, And Wool or Cotton in her Ears! She asks for no triumphal Arch; No Steeples for their ropy Tongues; Down, Drumsticks, down, She needs no March, Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs. She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats To tell that She is drawing nigh: Why this Parade of scarlet Coats, When War has closed his bloodshot Eye?