Yes, plain to be seen, Underneath the machine, There dangled a mortal--some swore it was Green; Some Mason could spy; Others named Mr. Gye; Or Hollond, compell’d by the Belgians to fly. ’Twas Graham the flighty, Whom the Duke high and mighty, Resign’d to take care of his own lignum-vitæ; ’Twas Hampton, whose whim Was in Cloudland to swim, Till e’en Little Hampton look’d little to him! But all were at fault; From the heavenly vault The falling balloon came at last to a halt; And bounce! with the jar Of descending so far, An outlandish Creature was thrown from the car! At first with the jolt All his wits made a bolt, As if he’d been flung by a mettlesome colt; And while in his faint, To avoid all complaint, The Muse shall endeavour his portrait to paint. The face of this elf, Round as platter of delf, Was pale as if only a cast of itself: His head had a rare Fleece of silvery hair, Just like the Albino at Bartlemy Fair. His eyes they were odd, Like the eyes of a cod, And gave him the look of a watery God. His nose was a snub; Under which for his grub, Was a round open mouth like to that of a chub. His person was small, Without figure at all, A plump little body as round as a ball: With two little fins, And a couple of pins, With what has been christen’d a bow in the shins. His dress it was new, A full suit of sky-blue-- With bright silver buckles in each little shoe-- Thus painted complete, From his head to his feet, Conceive him laid flat in Squire Hopkins’s wheat. Fine text for the crowd! Who disputed aloud What sort of a creature had dropp’d from the cloud-- “He’s come from o’er seas, He’s a Cochin Chinese-- By jingo! he’s one of the wild Cherookees!” “Don’t nobody know?” “He’s a young Esquimaux, Turn’d white like the hares by the Arctical snow.” “Some angel, my dear, Sent from some upper _spear_ For Plumtree or Agnew, too good for this-here!” Meanwhile, with a sigh, Having open’d one eye, The Stranger rose up on his seat by and by; And finding his tongue, Thus he said, or he sung, “_Mi criky bo biggamy kickery bung!_” “Lord! what does he speak?” “It’s Dog-Latin--it’s Greek!” “It’s some sort of slang for to puzzle a Beak!” “It’s no like the Scotch,” Said a Scot on the watch, “Phoo! it’s nothing at all but a kind of hotch-potch!”