Chapter I: DYED away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair,

I buttered up the fur upon my tile,
I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,
And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,
I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;
She had just been to the Probate for a pile!

Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"
Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!
A serious alteration in her style;
I knew her when a maiden without guile,
She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,
A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!

A Seaside Idyll this;
To teach how oft amiss,
Doth fall the fate of men
who would be free:

It makes me cry heigho,
In minor cadence low,
When I do mind me
Of the fate of three,

To shun hymenial perils,
And tired of mashing girls,
A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,
And formed a reckless crew,
That swallowed their own brew,
Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;

But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,
And that's the reason that I cry heigho!

They wrestled with the wave,

Then ran into their cave;

But telescopes above, were taking stock,

Thus fate was on their track,

And soon alas! alack!

The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,

Thus mesmerised by mirth,
They climbed the rocks, and earth,
With fascinated recklessness alack!

My sympathy to show,
Again I say heigho!
'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.

Ah! me, the smugglers three,
Were blind their fate to see,
And lo! capitulation followed soon;

For spite of all their pains,
They soon were in the chains,
That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,

That shone on double case, of treble spoon;
Too like the moon, that wanes;
And that is why I sing in minor tune,
And cry again with sympathy, heigho!

Thus ever day by day,
In bondage still they lay,
Surrendering provisions, and their brew,

Until the crew did go
Into the town, and lo!

A parson had some triple work to do,
They're captives now,

hard labour is their due,
Alack! the hapless crew;
I cry again with sympathy, heigho!

THE LATE FITZ-BINKS.

IT was about an hour they call the small, and the mysterious,
An hour wherein the ghosts are wont to take their
constitutional,
'Twas twenty-four o'clock; an hour that's oftimes deleterious
To many a liver wetted swell, pugnacious or emotional.
The beggared corporation lights, did flick in the nor'wester gale,
That blistering nose, and finger-tips, were loaded well
with sleet,
When Binks harrangued a constable, "Good night, it's cold, you're
looking pale,"
From where he backed a lamp-post, at the end of Brunswick Street.
"Ah! Sergeant," said Fitz-Binks, "It's late, or I could treat
you decently,
And 'twouldn't be too dusty, if we had a flying drink;
But Chap, of Vic., is strict, they passed in Parliament so recently,"
The bobbie was a thirsty one, he winked a thirsty wink.
"Ha! ha!" said Binks, "You know the lines, so don't be too particular,
There's some back door that's open," said the constable,
"you're right;
Just move an' there thro' yondher lane an' hide up perpendicular,
Beyant the lamp, I'll folly whin there's nobody in sight."
The thing was managed gracefully, and with an open sesamè,
The constable had stolen to a quiet bar with Binks,
Produced a clay, said he, "I hope yer honor won't think less of me,
To pull a pipe," "By Jove! I don't," said Binks, and bought
the drinks.
The moment was so contraband, it gave unto that liquor bar,
A zest, he asked the constable to take another neat,
But lifting out his ticker, says the bobbie, "Well be quick or 'gar!
The sergeant might come whop on me! he's out upon his beat."
The constable decanted it, said he, "Howld on until I look,
Now fly!" said he, and while they dived again into the night,
He fished from out his overcoat, and deftly in his mouth he stuck,
A friendly lump of orris root, to make his breath all right.
That bobbie was a wily one, the act was rather opportune,
For they had scarcely managed to get half-way up the gut
When he was made aware that he must coin a whited whopper soon,
For hark! it was the tramping of the sergeant's heavy foot!
Said he, "We must dissimble, or I'm ruined, and a shapable,
Excuse I'll have to make!" * * *
* * * "What brings the two of you down here?"
"I'm makin' just a Pres'ner, Sir, he's dhrunk, an' he's incapable,"
Exclaimed the bobbie, gripping Binks, just under Binks's ear!
'Twas somewhat ominous for Binks, though he protested not, he chewed
The cud of thought, until he saw that sergeant out of sight;
He had not comprehended yet, the patronising turpitude
Of bobbies, who will take a treat, "well now," said he,
"good night,"
But spake that constable, said he, "good night is best for you, ye
see,
But it won't answer now for me, I darn't let you go,
It's quietly, and aisily, and dacently, you'll come wid me,
Yer dhrunk, an' yer incapable! I towld the sergeant so."
Fitz-Binks fell plump in mire of doubt, 'twas shocking! thus
to realize,
Such treachery, and subterfuge, of ingrate sneak of sin,
But 60 X was bigger in his figure, by a deal of size,
And little Binks, was little, so the bobbie ran him in!
The sergeant,--he who took the charge--was grave, and staid,
particular!
He entered Binks upon his book, and sent him to the cell,
And Binks did forfeit half a sov., for standing perpendicular,
Before the Beak, and leaving court, he cursed that bobbie well!
He said the act was scandalous, and of the gutter order, he,--
That bobbie was, "Ah whisht! ye see, an' howld yer tongue,
shut up
It's fond of me, you ought to be, if I swore ye wor disordherly,
It would have cost ye exthra, or you'd maybe be put up!"
It used to be a sermonising habit, and methodical,
To tag a moral story, with a warning at its end
And bobbie entertainments in the midnight, might be quodical!
So leave him to his duty, if you'd keep him as a friend.