TO A DECAYED SEAMAN. Hail! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop! Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion, Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop Became so fatal to thy locomotion;-- Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean, Thou readest still to men a lesson good, To King and Country showing thy devotion, By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood! Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol; Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg,-- Methinks,--thou Naval History in one Vol.-- A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg, For unlike others that desert their Poll, Thou walkest ever with thy “Constant Peg!” TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL. I’m fond of partridges, I’m fond of snipes, I’m fond of black cocks, for they’re very good cocks-- I’m fond of wild ducks, and I’m fond of woodcocks-- And grouse that set up such strange moorish pipes. I’m fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes-- I’m fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory-- I’m fond of capercailzies in their glory,-- Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types: All these are in your care, Law-giving Peer, And when you next address your Lordly Babel, Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear, With due and fit provision to enable A man that holds all kinds of game so dear To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table. [Illustration: THE TOP OF HIS PROFESSION.] [Illustration: JOINING IN A CATCH.] LIEUTENANT LUFF. A COMIC BALLAD. All you that are too fond of wine, Or any other stuff, Take warning by the dismal fate Of one Lieutenant Luff. A sober man he might have been, Except in one regard, He did not like _soft_ water, So he took to _drinking hard_! Said he, “Let others fancy slops, And talk in praise of Tea, But I am no _Bohe_mian, So do not like _Bohea_. If wine’s a poison, so is Tea, Though in another shape; What matter whether one is kill’d By _canister_ or _grape_!” According to this kind of taste Did he indulge his drouth, And being fond of _Port_, he made A _port_-hole of his mouth! A single pint he might have sipp’d And not been out of sorts, In geologic phrase--the rock He split upon was _quarts_! To “hold the mirror up to vice” With him was hard, alas! The worse for wine he often was, But not “before a glass.” No kind and prudent friend had he To bid him drink no more,-- The only _chequers_ in his course Were at a tavern door! Full soon the sad effects of this His frame began to show, For that old enemy the gout Had taken him in _toe_! And join’d with this an evil came Of quite another sort,-- For while he drank, himself, his purse Was getting “_something short_.”