At length to the Ferry we safely arrive, Each thanking his genius he still was alive: Poor Cynthia complain'd of abundance of harms, The black on her face and the blue on her arms: Snipinda exclaim'd that she wanted a patch, For Snip, in his ravings, had give her a scratch: The corpse of the captain was merely a wreck, And the sailor complain'd of a kink in his neck, He had a contusion, beside, on his thigh; And the ballad-man talk'd of a bruise on his eye, Just adding, "how much he was vext at the heart That no one regarded the song-singing art: Yet the town was in love with his music (he said) But never consider'd he liv'd by the trade; That affronts and neglect were forever his lot, And the lovers of music respected him--not; He had sung for the nymphs, and had sung for the swains, But they were unwilling to purchase his strains, When he put up his ballads and call'd for his pay, The shepherds slunk off, and the nymphs ran away." So, we said what we could to encourage poor Bob, And pitied his fortune,--to live by the mob: Advis'd him to cobble, cut throats, or dig ditches If he wish'd to advance to perferment and riches; That the time had arriv'd, when a sycophant race Of poets are only promoted to place-- He should scorn them alike, if attach'd to a crown, Singing lies to a court, or disguis'd in the gown; That a poet of genius (all history shews) Ne'er wanted a puppy, to bark at his muse: And, though their productions were never once read, Yet Bavius and Mevius must also be fed. Then the skipper came in, with a terrible noise, Exclaiming, "The wherry is ready, my boys: The sails are unfurl'd, and the clock has struck eight; Away to the wharf, for no longer I wait!" Now all were embark'd, and the boat under sail, With a dark cloudy sky and a stiff blowing gale: In plying to windward we delug'd our decks-- O'Bluster discours'd of disasters and wrecks-- Snip offer'd the skipper five dollars, and more, And a pair of new trowsers, to run us on shore; "And, if I was there (said the faint-hearted swain) No money should tempt me to travel again! I had rather, by far, I had broken both legs, Been rotting in prison, or pelted with eggs! Now comrades and captains, I bid you good night, And you, Mr. Slender, our journey will write; A journey like this will attention attract, Related in metre, and known to be fact."-- Snipinda was sorry she ever left home-- Ezekiel confess'd it was madness to roam;-- Toupee was alarm'd at the break of the seas, And you, Robert Slender, were not at your ease; Yet couldn't help laughing at captain O'Keef, Who shunn'd little Cynthia, and cast up his beef: "And, Bruin (she said) I am sick at my heart, Come hither, I pray you--and see me depart: What wretches e'er travell'd so rugged a route; Alas! I am sorry that e'er we set out!" And Sam, while he own'd what a thief he had been,