Soon came a storm--the sea at first Seemed lying almost fallow-- When lo! full crash, with billowy dash, From clouds of black and yellow, Came such a gale, as blows but once A cent’ry, like the aloe! Our stomachs we had just prepared To vest a small amount in; When, gush! a flood of brine came down The skylight--quite a fountain, And right on end the table rear’d, Just like the Table Mountain. Down rush’d the soup, down gush’d the wine, Each roll, its rôle repeating, Roll’d down--the round of beef declar’d For parting--not for meating! Off flew the fowls, and all the game Was “too far gone for eating!” Down knife and fork--down went the pork, The lamb too broke its tether; Down mustard went--each condiment-- Salt--pepper--all together! Down everything, like craft that seek The Downs in stormy weather. Down plunged the Lady of the Lake, Her timbers seemed to sever; Down, down, a dreary derry down, Such lurch she had gone never; She almost seem’d about to take A bed of down for ever! Down dropt the captain’s nether jaw, Thus robb’d of all its uses, He thought he saw the Evil One Beside Vesuvian sluices, Playing at dice for soul and ship And throwing _Sink_ and _Deuces_. Down fell the steward on his face, To all the Saints commending; And candles to the Virgin vow’d, As save-alls ’gainst his ending. Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, Check-mate, was close impending! Down fell the cook--the cabin boy, Their beads with fervour telling, While alps of serge with snowy verge, Above the yards came yelling. Down fell the crew, and on their knees Shuddered at each white swelling! Down sunk the sun of bloody hue, His crimson light a cleaver To each red rover of a wave: To eye of fancy-weaver, Neptune, the God, seemed tossing in A raging scarlet fever! Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray’d To Saint and Virgin Mary; But one there was that stood composed Amid the waves’ vagary; As staunch as rock, a true game cock ’Mid chicks of Mother Cary! His ruddy cheek retain’d its streak, No danger seemed to shrink him; His step still bold,--of mortal mould The crew could hardly think him: The Lady of the Lake, he seem’d To know, could never sink him. [Illustration: A ROUGH SEA.] Relax’d at last the furious gale, Quite out of breath with racing; The boiling flood in milder mood, With gentler billows chasing; From stem to stern, with frequent turn, The Stranger took to pacing. And as he walk’d to self he talked, Some ancient ditty thrumming, In under tone, as not alone-- Now whistling, and now humming-- “You’re welcome, Charlie,” “Cowdenknowes,” “Kenmure,” or “Campbells’ Coming.”