(_As Deduced from a late Collision_) The rule of the river's a
mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard
your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to
be wrong.
* * * * *
"THE USUAL CHANNEL"
To what snug refuge do I fly
When glass is low, and billows high,
And goodness knows what fate is nigh?--
My Cabin!
Who soothes me when in sickness' grip,
Brings a consolatory "nip,"
And earns my blessing, and his tip?--
The Steward!
When persons blessed with fancy rich
Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch.
What say--"The case is hardly sich"?--
My Senses!
What makes me long for _real_ Free Trade,
When no Douaniers could invade.
Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?--
My Luggage!
What force myself, perhaps another,
To think (such thoughts we try to smother)
"The donkey-engine is our brother"?--
Our Feelings!
And what, besides a wobbling funnel,
Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale,
Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?--
My Crossing!
* * * * *
[Illustration: 'ARRY CATCHES A CRAB]
* * * * *