That our friends don't forget us, although they may go
To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.

If some little advantage seems likely to start,
From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,
It's surprising to see how it softens the heart,

And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest.

But, it was not so here;

For although it is clear,

When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,
E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,
And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog
Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,

Yet he, first of all, ceased

To encourage the beast,

Perhaps thinking “Enough is as good as a feast;"
And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,
He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!"

So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown,

And his "That's a good dog !" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing,
Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing,
Using paws, tail, and head,

As if he had said,

"Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed;
You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!"
Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose,
Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,
Spite of all he could do,

The Dog jump'd up too,

And kept him awake with his very cold nose;
Scratching and whining,

And moaning and pining,

Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in
Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length
The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it

's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite,

Blogg show'd fight;

When he saw, by the light

Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite
Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright,
Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt,
Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt-
Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!—

In an instant; for, when only decently drunk,
Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!-what's that?—

They have got into chat

In the kitchen below-what the deuce are they at?—
There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife—
And she-by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!—
At each twist

Of her wrist,

And her great mutton fist,

The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-
The fierce kitchen fire

Had not made Blogg perspire

Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.—
It ceases-all's silent!-and now, I declare
There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-
He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,
And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping!

For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief” on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"Down he went, legs and head,

Flat on the bed,

Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead;

While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.

you

Then, just as the villain

Crept, stealthily still, in,

And I'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling,
As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor,
Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow a facer;"-

-Down went man and weapon.-Of all sorts of blows,
From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose

There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer,

(Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person

Was call'd James M'Pherson,

While, as to the second, they stoutly declare

He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where)
Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer
Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter
For the last twenty years,

By the lively young Peers,

Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat
Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;
-I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses,
More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises,
I'd describe now to you

As "prime a Set-to,"

And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew;

Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of
Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off.
But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!"
Lace mittens she loves,

Detesting "The Gloves;"

And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,
From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.
So, as far as I can see,

I must leave you to "fancy"

The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret"

Flew over the garret:

Merely stating the fact.

As each other they whack'd,

The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd;

Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off;

Next making a stoop on

The buffeting group on

The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon ;

Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.—

Really, which way

This desperate fray

Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say,
The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:
But a few fresh arrivals decided the day;
For bounce went the door,

In came half a score

Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more
Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

It's a great many years ago-mine then were few-
Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux ;
I think that they say

She had been, in her day

A First-rate, but was then what they term a Rasée,—
And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay
(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.)
In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion,
The little I know that concerns Navigation,
And obtained, inter alia, some vague information
Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,

Is adopted on shipboard-I think it's call'd "Cobbing."
How it's managed exactly I really can't say,
But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play,-
That is, if I'm right:-it exceeds my ability

To tell how 'tis done;

But the system is one

Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility.
And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd
Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"—
That's mere matter of taste:

But the Frenchman was placed

I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've tracedIn such a position, that, on his unmasking,

His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.

The old woman, too,

Was obliged to go through,

With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,-ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say
Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day,
Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!-

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,

Be wary
of strangers!-don't take too much grog!—
And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!—
Above all-carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,
Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing;
But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye,
INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI! ! !

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him,
I never once thought to inquire what became of him;
If you want to know, Reader, the way, I opine,
To achieve your design,-

-Mind, it's no wish of mine,

Is, (a penny will do 't)—by addressing a line
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

DAME FREDEGONDE.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

WHEN folks with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They're sure to come with phrases nice,
And modest air, for your advice.
But, as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.