"My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock Is out, with the Kürchwasser, Barsac, Moselle, And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well, I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose; As to me, I opine, Left _sans_ money or wine, My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine, Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over, 'Though he lived a _roué_, yet he died a philosopher.'" The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely, Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream; Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes, In other respects she was scanty of clothes; For, so says tradition, both written and oral, Her _one_ garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral. Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, With silver cords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar, And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight, Soon found his astonishment merged in delight; But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees, Till at length it invaded her very chemise, While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her, And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower; --Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat, "Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!" Then into the water he plunged with a souse That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house. Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink, And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose, Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch; Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood, Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud. But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight, When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!-- A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal, Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small Came thronging around him, regardless of danger, And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger. Their figures and forms to describe, language fails-- They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails; Of their genus or species a sample to gain, You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain; E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop To stare, were such monsters expos'd in his shop.