As we sailed down the Chyannel of old Engeland,
With our pennants all flying at bay, And a
man on the yardarm aclearing The reef tayckle, and
this is what he'd say, " Let go the reef atayckle,
Let go the reef atayckle, Let
go the reef atayckle, My sheets, they are jammed! "

As we go about the toils of life,
As we witness each day, it's burdens and strife,
Thinking not of days of the future or past,
Knowing not where in life our lots may be cast, —

'Tis then in life's broad and fertile field,
In tho'tlessness to fate we yield;
Not deeming it wise our tho'ts to cast
On any works or deeds of the past.

Still tho'tlessly we struggle along
Amid Life's great and fearless throng;
Thro' darkened caves, o'er rugged steeps,
Thinking not that as we sow we reap.

But later on, when years have flown,

AS WE entered by that door
We saw the lights a-flame —
A-flame on your bier,
On the bier of you
Who had loved many a one,
Loved many a one!

Then I said to your love,
To her, your latest love,
" There's his last room,
His final roof-tree
Who has lived in many a one,
In many a one.

" A tree never more
Grows to shield him
From the bitter cold and rain,
From the blighting light of love
Which ends many a one —
Ends many a one.

" There's his last tree;
You're his last love:
The new bud in bloom,

As two men were a-walking, down by the sea-side,
O the brave Duke of Grafton they straightway espied,
Said the one to other, and thus did they say,
It is the brave Duke of Grafton that is now cast away.

They brought him to Portsmouth, his fame to make known,
And from thence to fair London, so near to the throne;
They pulled out his bowels, and they stretched forth his feet,
They embalmed his body with spices so sweet.

All things were made ready, his funeral for to be,
Where the royal Queen Mary came there for to see,

Anno 1672

As t'other night in bed I thinking lay
How I my rent should to my landlord pay,
Since corn, nor wool, nor beast would money make,
Tumbling perplexed, these thoughts kept me awake:
" What will become of this mad world? " quoth I.
What's its disease? What is its remedy?
Where will it issue? Whereto does it tend?
Some ease to misery 'tis to know its end. "
Till servants dreaming, as they used to do,
Snored me asleep. I fell a-dreaming too.
Methought there met the grand Cabal of seven

Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks
Were walking out one Sunday,
Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks,
Tomorrow will be Monday.

THE DOORS

A S through the Void we went I heard his plumes
Strike on the darkness. It was passing sweet
To hold his hand and feel that thin air beat
Against our pinions as we winged those glooms
Of Ebon, through which Atropos still dooms
Each soul to pass. Then presently our feet
Found footing on a ledge of dark retreat,
And opposite appeared two doors of tombs
Seen by the star upon the angel's head
That made dim twilight; there I caught my breath:

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife,
He took to the street, and fled for his life;
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,
And sav'd him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventur'd to give him some sober advice--
But, Tom is a person of honour so nice,
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning:
Three duels he fought, thrice ventur'd his life;
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife.

IN MEMORIAM

A S the wind at play with a spark
 Of fire that glows through the night,
As the speed of the soaring lark
 That wings to the sky his flight,
So swiftly thy soul has sped
 On its upward, wonderful way,
Like the lark, when the dawn is red,
 In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead
 Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
 And the mourners kneel and pray;
From thy semblance, dumb and stark,
 The soul has taken its flight—
Out of the finite dark,

As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,
So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:
Not vain the labor of those clustering bees
Who on your infant lips spread honey-dew;
Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,
Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you!