It is strange that Byron should have made two versions (for another "version" from the Newstead MSS., see _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 229-231) of the "Address to the Sun," which forms the conclusion of "Carthon;" but the Harvard version appears to be genuine. It is to be noted that Byron appended to the earlier version eighteen lines of his own composition, by way of moral or application.] LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 1. HUZZA! Hodgson[3], we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the Custom-house; Trunks unpacking Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet. 2. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient, push from shore. "Have a care! that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!" "Sick, Ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.-- Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 3. Now we've reached her, lo! the Captain, Gallant Kidd,[4] commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew. "Hey day! call you that a cabin? Why't is hardly three feet square! Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-- Who the deuce can harbour there?" "Who, sir? plenty-- Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fill."-- "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still! Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 4. Fletcher! Murray! Bob![5] where are you? Stretched along the deck like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth--and damns our souls. "Here's a stanza[6] On Braganza-- Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup Of warm water--" "What's the matter?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 5.