“Then he puts out
a fin like a big barndoor—
Now this ’ere is real straight truth—
It sounds like a fable, but he tuk my bloomin’ cable,
And he tied it to his left front tooth!
“In another second
more, at the bottom of the sea
The Crazy Jane was aground; Sez I,
’You oughter be ashamed of yerself,
It’s a one-der as I wasn’t drowned.’
“Then he calls on
a porkeypine a-standin’ quite near,
Sez he, ‘Look arter this barge,’
‘A-begging your pardon that’s a wessel’ I sez:
Sez he: ‘Werry fine and large!’
“With one of hiz eye-lashes,
thick as a rope,
He ties me on to his knoze,
Then down in a cave right under the sea
Like a flash of light we goes.
“He tuk me up to his
wife, who was
A murmyaid with three tails;
She was havin’ of her dinner, and perlitely she sez,
‘Will you have some o’ these ‘ere snails?’
“So I sits me down
by her buteful side—
She’d a face like a sunset sky;
Her hair was a sort of a scarlety red,
And her knoze was strait as a die.
“I hadn’t sot
a minit wen sez she to me,
’Sammy, don’t yer know me agane?
Why, I’m the wife arter wot yer call’d yer ship;
Sure enuf, it was Craizy Jane—
“The wife as had bother’d
me all my life,
Until she got drown’d one day,
When a-bathin’ out o’ one of them there masheens
In this wery same Margit Bay.
“The Sarpint was a-havin’
of his dinner, and so
She perposed as how we should fly—
But, sez I to meself, ’What, take you back?
Not if I knose it,’ sez I.
“‘But how about
them there tails?’ I sez—
‘On shore them will niver doo;’
She sez, ’Yer silly, why, karn’t yer see,
They’re only fixed on wi’ a screw?’
“So I tells her as
how I’ll go fetch the old ship
Wile she’s a-unscreuing of her tails;
But when I gets back to the Crazy Jane
I finds there a couple of wales.
“I jist had time to
see the biggest of the two
A-swallerin’ of the ship right whole,
And in one more momint he swallered me too,
As true as I’m a livin’ sole.
“But when he got to
the surfis of the sea,
A summat disagreed with that wale,
And he up with me and the Crazy Jane and all—
And this ’ere’s the end of my tail.”
* * * * *
Then this old ainshunt mariner,
he sez unto me—
And ‘onesty was shinin’ in hiz eyes—
“It’s jist the sort o’ story wot no one won’t beleeve—
But it’s true, little nipper, if I dies,”
THE AMATEUR ORLANDO.
BY GEORGE T. LANIGAN.
It was an Amateur Dram.
(Kind hearer, although your
Knowledge of French is not first-class,
Don’t call that Amature.)
It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
The which did warfare wage
On the dramatic works of this
And every other age.