y Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a
_lock_ of her air when I was a leaving of the _key_. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord
Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke
the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly
reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in
my _stommik_, and had nothing to rite on but my _chest_. I threw off as
follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of
"Willy Reilly:"--

Oakum to me[3], ye sailors bold,
Wot plows upon the sea;
To you I mean for to unfold
My mournful histo-ree.
So pay attention to my song,
And quick-el-ly shall appear,
How innocently, all along,
I vos in-weigle-ed here.

One night, returnin home to bed,
I walk'd through Pim-li-co,
And, twigging of the Palass, sed,
"I'm _Jones_ and _In-i-go_."
But afore I could get out, my boys
Pollise-man 20 A,
He caught me by the corderoys,
And lugged me right a-way.

My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and
On Jonny Russ-all-so,
That forc'd me from my native land
Across the vaves to go-o-oh.
But all their spiteful arts is wain,
My spirit down to keep;
I hopes I'll soon git back again,
To take another peep.

[3] The nautical mode of writing--"Oh! come to me."--PRINTER'S
DEVIL.

_2 o'clock._--Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I
never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner "a mess" on
broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look--no bread but hard biskit and
plenty of ship's _rolls_, besides biled pork and P-soop--both these
articles seemed rayther queer--felt my stommick growing quear too--got on
deck, and asked where we were--was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I
never was in such dreadful straits in my life--ship leaning very much on
one side, which made me feel like a man

[Illustration: GOING OFF IN A RAPID DECLINE.]

_3 o'clock._--Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy.
Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just
now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it's all dickey
with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made
fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn't refrain from
weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in
the cable _tiers_.

_5 o