I _steamed_ from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib how she _smoked_ through the breeze. She’s a vessel as tight to my fancy As ever _boil’d_ through the salt seas. * * * * * When up the _flue_ the sailor goes And ventures on the _pot_, The landsman, he no better knows, But thinks hard is his lot. Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets, Weighs anchor, lights the log; _Trims up the fire, picks out the slates_, And drinks his can of grog. * * * * * Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, ’Bout danger, and fear, and the like; But a _Boulton and Watt_ and good _Wall’s-end_ give me; And it an’t to a little I’ll strike. Though the tempest our _chimney_ smack smooth shall down smite, And shiver each _bundle_ of wood; Clear the wreck, _stir the fire_, and stow everything tight, And _boiling a gallop_ we’ll scud. I have cooked Stevens’s, or rather Incledon’s Storm in the same way; but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing. Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling, By shovel, tongs, and poker stand; Down the scuttle quick be hauling, Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand; Now it freshens,--blow like blazes; Now unto the coal-hole go; Stir, boys, stir, don’t mind black faces, Up your ashes nimbly throw. Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys, See the valve is clear of course; Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft a proper draft get, Oil the engines, see all clear; Hands up, each a sack of coal get, Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer. Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring, Peal on peal contending clash; On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, In our eyes the paddles splash. One wide water all around us, All above one smoke-black sky: Different deaths at once surround us; Hark! what means that dreadful cry? [Illustration: ALL UP.] The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out, The engineer’s washed off the deck: A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung out Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces; Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; Plumb the boiler, speed decreases, Four feet water getting cold. While o’er the ship wild waves are beating, We for wives or children mourn; Alas! from hence there’s no retreating; Alas! to them there’s no return. The fire is out--we’ve burst the bellows, The tinder-box is swamped below; Heaven have mercy on poor fellows, For only that can serve us now!