'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows, In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes; There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, sworn by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour. You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Reader,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus. --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'Twas the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect--and I haven't Lempriere.-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey. "O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!" And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize; When as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?-- No such thing, Reader:--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog! * * * * * I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout Are a class that society doesn't much care about; Men who gain their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing;" Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Blogg, When the curly-tail'd dog At last dragg'd him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold;" And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a _Maître de Danse_, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite.