My eyes! how she did pitch! And wouldn’t keep her own to go in no line, Tho’ I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line But always making leeway to the ditch, And yaw’d her head about all sorts of ways; The devil sink the craft! And wasn’t she trimendus slack in stays! We couldn’t, no how, keep the inn abaft! Well--I suppose We hadn’t run a knot--or much beyond-- (What will you have on it?)--but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond! There I am!--all a-back! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t’other track; But when I starts, The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears! What could a fellow do, Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to, And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, In rig all snug and clever, Just while his craft was taking in her water? I didn’t like my burth tho’, howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting taughter,-- Says I--I wish this job was rayther shorter! The chase had gain’d a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking: Now, all the while Her body didn’t take of course to shrinking. Says I, she’s letting out her reefs, I’m thinking,-- And so she swell’d, and swell’d, And yet the tackle held, ’Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes! but she took in enough to founder! And there’s my timbers straining every bit, Ready to split, And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder! Well, there--off Hartford Ness, We lay both lash’d and water-logg’d together, And can’t contrive a signal of distress; Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, Tho’ sick of riding out--and nothing less; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:-- Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!-- And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road, And leaves the she-mare to her own concarn, A-standing by the water. If I get on another, I’ll be blowed!-- And that’s the way, you see, my legs got bow’d! THE STAG-EYED LADY. A MOORISH TALE. Scheherazade immediately began the following story. Ali Ben Ali (did you never read His wond’rous acts that chronicles relate,-- How there was one in pity might exceed The sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate Upon the throne of greatness--great indeed, For those that he had under him were great-- The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, Was a Bashaw--Bashaws have horses’ tails.