By easy journies, (tho’ estrang’d from ease), He once more travell’d in the land of Fleas. Onward was dragg’d o’er many a weary League, His only comfort left was honest Teague. Silent and sad he lay, and scarcely spoke, But ‘_Oh Patron, oh! sparum, sparum poke_.[22] ‘Oh, mind the Rascal, Teague, don’t let him spill me; ‘The horrid Brute I’m sure’s resolv’d to kill me.’ And, now when many a tedious Day had past, Half-dead at Lisbon, he arriv’d at last. His piteous case was now by Teague convey’d, And in due form before the General laid. A Fleet of Transports in the Tagus lay, And was to Sail for England the next day. The General kindly sent poor Johnny word-- A Birth was order’d; he might go on Board; With kind indulgence, and which did him honour, Permission gave that he might take O’Connor. Teague’s honest joy now kindled in his heart, When from his Master he was not to part. ‘He’d been his Friend, his Nurse, his Consolation; ‘No braver Lad,’ says Teague, ‘lives in the Nation; ‘I’ll get him snug on Board, and then I think, ‘I’ll to my Friends, and to take a hearty drink.’ Now John by Teague was safely stow’d on Board, And Teague got staggering drunk to keep his word. Next morn by times, to Johnny’s great surprize, Teague had a broken Nose, and two Black Eyes. Teague thought by some excuse to make amends-- ‘I _tuck_ a Drink, your Honour, with some Friends.’ ‘With Friends,’ said John, ‘no, Teague, you mean your Foes; ‘The Devil’s in’t, if Friends would break your Nose.’ ‘Ah no, your Honour,’ says Teague, ‘’twas Friends for _sartin_-- ‘We drank like Friends, _but had a fight at parting_.’ ‘O! aye,’ said John, ‘you Paddies like a joke, ‘So friendly-like, you took a parting Stroke.’ Blue Peter hoisted, and the Wind was fair; John much refresh’d inhal’d the saline air. Stretch’d on the Deck, he oft did take his Station, His empty stomach offer’d no oblation: His wand’ring thoughts would retrospective cast, Dwelling on all the Scenes that he had pass’d; And fancy oft would pleasurably roam To his lov’d Parents, and his happy Home. Now passing Ushant from the Bay of Biscay, ‘Don’t I,’ said Teague, ‘smell Ireland & Whiskey?’ ‘Why, Teague,’ said John, ‘I think we’re drawing near ‘The coast of Ireland, that is called Cape Clear. ‘Here, take the Spy-Glass--look with all your might.’ ‘I see’t, by Ja--s, ’tis Clear out of sight.’ As to the Northward now the Wind did veer, They trimm’d the Sails, and up the Channel steer; Smoothly they ran, and, by the Convoy led, They shortly cast their Anchor at Spithead. Tho’ weak was John, and trembled at each joint, He took a Boat, and landed at the point; Popp’d Teague and Baggage in a Chaise and Four, And quickly travell’d to his Father’s Door.