In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps,--some half score,-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door. It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho.-- Be this as it may,--at the date I assign To my tale,--that's about Seventeen Sixty Nine,-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners,--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line. There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travell'd full oft for the firm before; But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg, A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog,-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog. * * * * * "The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!"-- So all sing and say By night and by day, In the _boudoir_, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight, From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion, Of being a "Rover" and "child of the Ocean"-- Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!" But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!" * * * * *