XVII.

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a _stake_ in his inside!

THE SEA-SPELL.

“_Cauld_, _cauld_, he lies beneath the deep.”

_Old Scotch Ballad._

It was a jolly mariner! The tallest man of three,-- He loosed his sail against the wind, And turned his boat to sea: The ink-black sky told every eye, A storm was soon to be!

But still that jolly mariner Took in no reef at all, For, in his pouch, confidingly, He wore a baby’s caul; A thing, as gossip-nurses know, That always brings a squall!

His hat was new, or, newly glazed, Shone brightly in the sun; His jacket, like a mariner’s, True blue as e’er was spun; His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul, Bore forty stripes save one.

And now the fretting foaming tide He steer’d away to cross; The bounding pinnace play’d a game Of dreary pitch and toss; A game that, on the good dry land, Is apt to bring a loss!

Good Heaven befriend that little boat, And guide her on her way! A boat, they say, has canvas wings, But cannot fly away! Though, like a merry singing-bird, She sits upon the spray!