(As Deduced from a late Collision) The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong.
"THE USUAL CHANNEL"
To what snug refuge do I fly
When glass is low, and billows high,
And goodness knows what fate is nigh?--
My Cabin!
Who soothes me when in sickness' grip,
Brings a consolatory "nip,"
And earns my blessing, and his tip?--
The Steward!
When persons blessed with fancy rich
Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch.
What say--"The case is hardly sich"?--
My Senses!
What makes me long for real Free Trade,
When no Douaniers could invade.
Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?--
My Luggage!
What force myself, perhaps another,
To think (such thoughts we try to smother)
"The donkey-engine is our brother"?--
Our Feelings!
And what, besides a wobbling funnel,
Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale,
Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?--
My Crossing!
