“Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder—­
    The rain a deluge pours—­
  Our sails were split asunder,
    By lightning’s vivid pow’rs.

“Do, young gentleman!—­toss a copper to poor little Poll.  Ah! bless you, master!—­may you never want a shot in your locker.  Thank the gentleman, Polly—­

  “The night both drear and dark,
  Our poor desarted bark,
  There she lay—­(lay quiet, Poll!)

  “There she lay—­Noble lady in the window, look with pity on poor Jack,
          and his little Polly—­till next day,
  In the Bay of Biscay O.”

“Pray, kind lady, help the poor shipwrecked sailor—­cast away on his voyage to the West Ingees, in a dreadful storm.  Sixteen hands on us took to the long-boat, my lady, and was thrown on a desart island, three thousand miles from any land; which island was unfortunately manned by Cannibals, who roast and eat every blessed one of us, except the cook’s black boy; and him they potted, my lady, and I’m bless’d but they’d have potted me, too, if I hadn’t sung out to them savages, in this ’ere sort of way, my lady—­

“Come all you jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While British valour I unfold—­
Huzza! for the Arethusa! 
She was a frigate stout and brave
As ever stemm’d the dashing wave—­

“Lord love your honour, and throw the poor sailor who has fought and bled for his country, a trifle to keep him from foundering.  Look, your honour, how I lost my precious limb in the sarvice.  You see we was in the little Tollymakus frigate, cruising off the banks o’ Newf’land, when we fell in with a saucy Yankee, twice the size of our craft; but, bless your honour, that never makes no odds to British sailors, and so we sarved her out with hot dumpling till she got enough, and forced her to haul down her stripes to the flag of Old England.  But somehow, your honour, I caught a chance ball that threw me on my beam-ends, and left me to sing—­

      “My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough,
        And I’ve seen a little sarvice,
  Where the mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow,
      I’ve sail’d with noble Howe,
        And I’ve fought with gallant Jarvis,
  And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung—­yo-heave-oh!”

“A sixpence or a shilling rewards Jack’s loyalty and eloquence.  A violent tossing of Polly and the ship testify his gratitude; and pocketing the coin he has collected, he puts about, and shapes his course for some other port, singing lustily as he goes—­

  “Rule Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves!”

Farewell, POOR JACK!

* * * * *

THOSE DIVING BELLES!  THOSE DIVING BELLES!

Some of our contemporaries have been dreadfully scandalised at the indelicate scenes which take place on the sands at Ramsgate, where, it seems, a sort of joint-stock social bathing company has been formed by the duckers and divers of both sexes.  Situations for obtaining favourable views are anxiously sought after by elderly gentlemen, by whom opera glasses and pocket telescopes are much patronised.  Greatly as we admire the investigation of nature in her unadorned simplicity, Ramsgate would be the last place we should select, if we were