for it.  I assure you that.  I (you may laugh if you will) have often been put to the blush by the repetition of some harmless phrase, dropped innocently from my lips, and warped by one of these ‘delicate’ gentlemen to a meaning the very reverse of what I intended to convey.  Like men with green spectacles, they look upon every object through an artificial medium, and give it a colour that has no existence in itself!

It was only last week, I was loitering about this very spot, when I observed, among the crowd of gazers, a dustman dressed in his best, and his plump doxy, extravagantly bedizened in her holiday clothes, hanging on his arm.

As they turned away, the lady elevated the hem of her rather short garments a shade too high (as the delicate dustman imagined) above her ancle.  He turned towards her, and, in an audible whisper, said, ‘Delicacy, my love—­’delicacy!’—­’Lawks, Fred!’ replied the damsel, with a loud guffaw,’—­’it’s not fashionable!—­besides, vot’s the good o’ having a fine leg, if one must’nt show it?’

So much for opinions on delicacy!

“Now Jem—­”

“Now, Jem, let’s shew these gals how we can row.”

The tide is agin us, I know,
But pull away, Jem, like a trump;
Vot’s that?  O! my vig, it’s a barge—­
Oh! criky! but that vos a bump!

How lucky ‘twas full o’ round coals,
Or ve might ha’ capsized her—­perhaps! 
See, the bargemen are grinning, by goles! 
I never seed sich wulgar chaps.

Come, pull away, Jem, like a man,
A vherry’s a coming along
Vith a couple o’ gals all agog—­
So let us be first in the throng.

Now put your scull rig’ler in,
Don’t go for to make any crabs;
But feather your oar, like a nob,
And show ’em ve’re nothink but dabs!

The vaterman’s leering at us,
And the gals is a giggling so—­
They take us for green’uns, but ve
Vill soon show ’em how ve can row.

Alas! for poor Bobby’s “show off”—­
He slipp’d in a trice from his seat—­
While his beaver fell into the stream,
And the gals laugh’d aloud at his feat.

For his boots were alone to be seen,
As he sprawled like a crab on its back;
While the waterman cried—­“Ho! my lads! 
I think you’d best try t’other tack!”

Says Bobby—­“You fool, it’s your fault;
Look—­my best Sunday castor is vet: 
Pull ashore, then, as fast as you can. 
I can’t row no more—­I’m upset.

“I think that my napper is broke,
Abumpin’ agin this wile boat;
You may laugh—­but I think it’s no joke: 
And I shan’t soon agin be afloat.

“I’ll never take you out agin—­
I’ve had quite enough in this bout!”
Cried Jem—­“Don’t be angry vith me;
Sit still, and I’ll soon—­put you out!”

STEAMING IT TO MARGATE.

“Steward, bring me a glass of brandy as quick as you can.”