Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 7.djvu/34

6 4.

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?

Stretched along the deck like logs—

Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here 's a rope's end for the dogs.

Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,

As the hatchway down he rolls,

Now his breakfast, now his verses,

Vomits forth—and damns our souls.

"Here 's a stanza

On Braganza—

Help!"—"A couplet?"—"No, a cup

Of warm water—"

"What 's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver 's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

5.

Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

But, since Life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,

Still to laugh by far the best is,

Then laugh on—as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,