may be crank;
But though it sometimes sprang a leak, it never wholly sank.
We are not packed so close to-day as we have oft been packed.
Against some stiffer gales than this we've weathered and we've tacked;
But, WILLIAM, though our craft tossed wild, though loud the winds have
roared,
We've never, never had so bad a boy as _you_ on board!

Sit down, now do, you pickle, you! Don't dance upon that thwart,
And see-saw in that sort of way. We want to get to port,
Not Davy Jones's Locker, Sir. "These roarers" are wild things,
As SHAKSPEARE in _The Tempest_ says, and do not care for Kings;
To keep them down and bale them out has always been our aim;
But you, you just play larks with them. What _is_ your little game?
You, young, the latest chap on board, but of a sound old stock
Of Royal navigators, do you think it right to mock
All nautical traditions in this reckless kind of way,
And greet these waves, as BYRON did, as though with them you'd _play_?
They're dangerous playfellows, boy; tiger-cubs hardly in it
For riskiness! I say, do stop! You'll swamp us in a minute.
Look at your Crown! Such head-gear, boy, is seldom a tight fit,
And oscillations sometimes act as Notices to Quit!

What would your grandfather have said to see you sway and prance?
Sit still, lad, you alarm us all. Just look at Madame FRANCE!
She's thought a fairish sailor, and has doffed her Crown, but see,
She's clutching at the gunwale, too, as nervous as can be.
Whilst, as for dear Senora SPAIN and her poor little charge,
I guess she wishes this same tub were CLEOPATRA's barge,
Or something broad and beamy that won't easily capsize.
AUSTRIA's staring with a look of agonized surprise.
And ITALY's dumfoundered. Sit down, boy! you're tempting fate.
These days are trying ones, for _us_, 'tis worse than Forty-Eight.
Then there were winds and whirlpools, but no Socialistic Sea
Sweeping all shores, and threatening International anarchy.
And with _its_ waves you're wantoning, and wobbling up and down,
Indifferent to our stomachs,--as regardless of your Crown.
Upon my honour it's too bad. _Noblesse oblige_, you know,
'Tis not a Hohenzollern we'd expect to serve us so.
You've sacked our safest Pilot, who objected to your pranks,
And now you are coquetting with mad mutiny in the ranks,
Eh? You'll suppress it when you please, you'll smash up all your foes?
'Tis a new game, for Royal