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« 'Tis surely some mistake,”
Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely,
«« 'Tis even as I said, 'Twas thus his gracious majesty
Ordain'd on his death-bed. " See, here the will is witness'd,
And here's his autograph !" “In truth, our father's writing,"
Says Edward, with a laugh ; “But thou shalt not be loser, Tom,
We'll share it half and half.” “ Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing cannot be; 'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me, *I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny. 6. He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it; He never help'd his brother ;
The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it. « Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
And Edward be the lord ;
Is worthy his reward,
pray Prince Ned, my second son,
to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer."
Such was old Brentford's honest testament,
He did devise his moneys for the best
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd, To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. Long time the famous reign of Ned endured
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward
Was very much the richer of the two. (By kind permission of Messrs. Smith and Elder.)
THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL.
W. S. GILBERT.
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
An elderly naval man.
And weedy and long was he,
In a singular minor key:
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the crew of the captain's gig!”
Till I really felt afraid,
“O, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be
“At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mid-hipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
He spun this painful yarn :
“ 'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
“And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul) And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said · Here!' to the muster-roll.
There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
" For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
The captain for our meal.
“ The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
We seven survivors stayed.
“And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
On the crew of the captain's gig.
“ Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, which Of us two goes to the butcher ?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved the cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see !
*166 I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,
'Yes, that,' says I, you'll be,' —
And ' Exactly so,' quoth he.
Were a foolish thing to do,
While I can—and will-cook you !'
"So, he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley too. "Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell, ''Twill soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
" And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
" And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And, as I a-eating be
For a vessel in sight I see !
" And I never grieve, and I never smile,
And I never larf nor play,
I have—which is to say:
"Oh! I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"
(By kind permission of the Author.)
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.
“Alas! what per ils do inviron
On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads; Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes-
Like the ocean—to cast her weeds;
Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships,
And the Chandler for watery dips ;
There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin !
That she snareth like Peter Fin!