Now we've reached her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kid, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapped in, Some to grumble, some to spew. "Hey day! call you that a cabin? Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-- Who the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plenty-- Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fill."-- "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still; Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship Lisbon Packet." Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretched along the decks like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth--and damns our souls. "Here's a stanza On Braganza-- Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup Of warm water--" "What's the matter?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on--as I do now. Laugh at all things, Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing, Let's have laughing-- Who the devil cares for more?-- Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet? TO FANNY. THOMAS MOORE Never mind how the pedagogue proses, You want not antiquity's stamp, The lip that's so scented by roses, Oh! never must smell of the lamp. Old Chloe, whose withering kisses Have long set the loves at defiance, Now done with the science of blisses, May fly to the blisses of science! Young Sappho, for want of employments, Alone o'er her Ovid may melt, Condemned but to read of enjoyments, Which wiser Corinna had felt. But for YOU to be buried in books-- Oh, FANNY! they're pitiful sages; Who could not in ONE of your looks Read more than in millions of pages! Astronomy finds in your eye Better light than she studies above, And music must borrow your sigh As the melody dearest to love. In Ethics--'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels Oh! show but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals. Your Arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you endeavor; But eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me forever Thus you see what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you-- A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to go through! And, oh!--if a fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts! YOUNG JESSICA. THOMAS MOORE.