Before high water--(it were better far To christen it not _water_ then, but _waiter_, For then the tide is _serving at the bar_) Rose such a swell--I never saw one greater! Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter, With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stout pour’d out with a fine _beachy head_. No open boat was open to a fare, Or launch’d that morn on seven-shilling trips; No bathing woman waded--none would dare A dipping in the wave--but waived their dips; No seagull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships; For two _lea shores_ upon the river Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea. Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,-- A boiling ocean of mix’d black and green, A sky of copper colour, grim and surly,-- When lo, in that vast hollow scoop’d between Two rolling Alps of water,--white and curly! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, Much like a first or last attempt at swimming! Sometimes a hand--sometimes a little shoe-- Sometimes a skirt--sometimes a hank of hair, Just like a dabbled seaweed, rose to view, Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare-- At last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Any one could swear The lad was dead--without a chance of perjury, And batter’d by the surge beyond all surgery! However, we snatch’d up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity’s sigh and groan, Then Curiosity began with _her_ fit; And lo! the features of the Small Unknown! ’Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit!-- And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies! We found a contract signed Mephistopheles! A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion, Providing in this world he was to have A lordship over luck, by whose exertion He might control the course of cards, and brave All throws of dice,--but on a sea excursion The juggling Demon, in his usual vein, Seized the last cast--and _Nick’d_ him in the _main_! LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA. Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me! Go where the mild Madeira ripens _her_ juice,-- A wine more praised that it deserves to be: Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me! [Illustration: KETCHING ITS PREY.] Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth Making a midnight meal of he and she; Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth, And think of me!