And still the waters foamed in, like ale, In front, and on either flank, He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more, The surges came tumbling in, He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, As cold as his marble slab; And he thought he felt, in every part, The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled, And the little potted shrimps, All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled, Gnawed into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro, And the glorious sun was sunk, And Day, getting black in the face, as though Of the nightshade she had drunk!

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, One tub, or keg, to be seen, It might have given his spirits a lift Or an _anker_ where _Hope_ might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat, To raft him from that sad place; Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat, Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy, He saw a sail and a mast, And called "Ahoy!"--but it was not a hoy, And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing that flapped in his face, The wild bird about him flew, With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, "Why, thou art a sea-gull too!"

And lo! the tide was over his feet; Oh! his heart began to freeze, And slowly to pulse:--in another beat The wave was up to his knees!

He was deafened amidst the mountain tops, And the salt spray blinded his eyes, And washed away the other salt drops That grief had caused to arise:--

But just as his body was all afloat, And the surges above him broke, He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat Of Deal--(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skin; And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin!

A FAIRY TALE.

On Hounslow Heath--and close beside the road, As western travellers may oft have seen,-- A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood: The walls of white, the window-shutters green,-- Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West (Though now at rest), On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row; But made his business travel for itself, Till he had made his pelf, And then retired--if one may call it so, Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;-- And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower: Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace,--unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,--when they had seen them one day!

And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,-- So, having had some quarters of school breeding, They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripened in the seventh stage, The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,-- Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,-- But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax'd themselves with Whittington, Or Valentine and Orson-- But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted in their dotage, Slobber'd,--and kept Reading,--and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on--the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,-- If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons, And magic fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,-- Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and parlor door, A hideous roar

Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels Or Durham feed; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils From nether side of Tweed, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,-- With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,-- When,--whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank; Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment,-- However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble; And after a pas seul,--or, if you will, a Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa, Leapt o'er the tiny pale,-- Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail Right o'er the page, Wherein the sage Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse,--who could?--two tales at once; And being huffed At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft; Banged-to the door, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:-- The monster gave a roar, And bolting off with speed increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again!

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach;--what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing, And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house--no villa there--no nothing!

No house!

The change was quite amazing; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seemed to harden; But soon her superannuated _nous_ Explain'd the horrid mystery;--and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, On which she meant to sup,-- "Well! this _is_ Fairy work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!"

CRANIOLOGY.

'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man--with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology-- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little poll-hills, The faculties throw up like mole-hills; A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For though he knew his skull had _grinders_, Still there turned up no _organ_ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled, And no man's head came in his head-- Not even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater.

At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him-- I don't know but it might be Spurzheim-- Tho' native of a dull and slow land, And makes partition of our Poll-land; At our Acquisitiveness guesses, And all those necessary _nesses_ Indicative of human habits, All burrowing in the head like rabbits.

Thus Veneration, he made known, Had got a lodging at the Crown; And Music (see Deville's example) A set of chambers in the Temple; That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, Close by his neighbor Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration.

The science thus--to speak in fit Terms--having struggled from its nit, Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip, And wallop in all doctorship, Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water: These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science; For of all learned themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver, There's none they love so near the bodles, As analysing their own noddles; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head, And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers'.

And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls!

For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration.

No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin; Down to the very lowest gullion, And oiliest skull of oily scullion.

No great man died but this they _did_ do, They begged his cranium of his widow: No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster; For thereon they could show depending, "The head and front of his offending": How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail!

And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion,-- Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils, Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister.

Each bias in some master node is:-- What takes M'Adam where a road is, To hammer little pebbles less?

His organ of Destructiveness.

What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate? a lumping lump of Number: Or Malthas rail at babies so?

The smallness of his Philopro-- What severs man and wife? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple: Or makes weak women go astray?

Their bumps are more in fault than they.

These facts being found and set in order By grave M. D.'s beyond the Border, To make them for some months eternal, Were entered monthly in a journal, That many a northern sage still writes in, And throws his little Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A great deal more than I or he knows: How Music suffers, _par exemple_, By wearing tight hats round the temple; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear; And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porter's occupation; Whether shillelaghs in reality May deaden Individuality; Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in th' Amative; If falls from scaffolds make us less Inclined to all Constructiveness: With more such matters, all applying To heads--and therefore _head-ifying_.

THE WEE MAN.

A ROMANCE.

It was a merry company, And they were just afloat, When lo! a man, of dwarfish span, Came up and hailed the boat.

"Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, And will you let me in?

A slender space will serve my case, For I am small and thin."

They saw he was a dwarfish man, And very small and thin; Not seven such would matter much, And so they took him in.

They laughed to see his little hat, With such a narrow brim; They laughed to note his dapper coat, With skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile, When, gravely, one and all At once began to think the man Was not so very small:

His coat had got a broader skirt, His hat a broader brim; His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out A very proper limb.