THE STEAM SERVICE.
“Life is but a kittle
cast.”—BURNS.
THE time is not yet come—but come it will—when the masts of our Royal
Navy shall be unshipped, and huge unsightly chimneys be erected in
their place. The trident will be taken out of the hand of Neptune, and
replaced by the effigy of a red hot poker; the Union Jack will look
like a smoke-jack; and Lambtons, Russels, and Adairs, will be made
Admirals of the Black; the forecastle will be called the Newcastle,
and the cockpit will be termed the coal-pit; a man-of-war’s tender
will be nothing but a Shields’ collier: first lieutenants will have to
attend lectures on the steam-engine, and midshipmen must take lessons
as climbing boys in the art of sweeping flues. In short, the good old
tune of “Rule Britannia,” will give way to “Polly put the Kettle on;”
while the Victory, the Majestic, and the Thunderer of Great Britain
will “paddle in the burn,” like the Harlequin, the Dart, and the Magnet
of Margate.
It will be well for our song writers to bear a wary eye to the Fleet,
if they would prosper as Marine Poets. Some sea Gurney may get a seat
at the Admiralty Board, and then farewell, a long farewell, to the old
ocean imagery; marine metaphor will require a new figure-head. Flowing
sheets, snowy wings, and the old comparison of a ship to a bird, will
become obsolete and out of date! Poetical topsails will be taken aback,
and all such things as reefs and double reefs will be shaken out of
song. For my own part, I cannot be sufficiently thankful that I have
not sought a Helicon of salt water; or canvassed the Nine Muses as a
writer for their Marine Library; or made Pegasus a sea-horse, when
sea-horses as well as land-horses are equally likely to be superseded
by steam. After such a consummation, when the sea service, like the
tea service, will depend chiefly on boiling water, it is very doubtful
whether the Fleet will be worthy of anything but plain prose. I have
tried to adapt some of our popular blue ballads to the boiler, and
Dibdin certainly does not steam quite so well as a potato. However, if
his Sea Songs are to be in immortal use, they will have to be revised
and corrected in future editions thus:—
I steamed from the Downs in the Nancy,
My jib how she smoked through the breeze.
She’s a vessel as tight to my fancy
As ever boil’d through the salt seas.
When up the flue the sailor goes
And ventures on the pot,
The landsman, he no better knows,
But thinks hard is his lot.
Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Weighs anchor, lights the log;
Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,
And drinks his can of grog.
Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
’Bout danger, and fear, and the like;
But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall’s-end give me;
And it an’t to a little I’ll strike.
Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite,
And shiver each bundle of wood;
Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow everything tight,
And boiling a gallop we’ll scud.
I have cooked Stevens’s, or rather Incledon’s Storm in the same way;
but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing.
Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand;
Now it freshens,—blow like blazes;
Now unto the coal-hole go;
Stir, boys, stir, don’t mind black faces,
Up your ashes nimbly throw.
Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,
See the valve is clear of course;
Let the paddles spin, don’t mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,
Oil the engines, see all clear;
Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.
Now the dreadful thunder’s roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,
In our eyes the paddles splash.
One wide water all around us,
All above one smoke-black sky:
Different deaths at once surround us;
Hark! what means that dreadful cry?
The funnel’s gone! cries ev’ry tongue out,
The engineer’s washed off the deck:
A leak beneath the coal-hole’s sprung out
Call all hands to clear the wreck.
Quick, some coal, some nubbly pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the boiler, speed decreases,
Four feet water getting cold.
While o’er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! from hence there’s no retreating;
Alas! to them there’s no return.
The fire is out—we’ve burst the bellows,
The tinder-box is swamped below;
Heaven have mercy on poor fellows,
For only that can serve us now!
Devoutly do I hope that the kettle, though a great vocalist, will never
thus appropriate the old Sea Songs of England. In the words of an old
Greenwich pensioner—“Steamin and biling does very well for Urn Bay,
and the likes;” but the craft does not look regular and shipshape to
the eye of a tar who has sailed with Duncan, Howe, and Jarvis—and who
would rather even go without port than have it through a funnel.
“Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a
golden ladle.”—GOLDSMITH.
“Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver
ones.”—SILVERSMITH.
WHO ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
and left the next heir all forlorn?
My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was no nurse,
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer?
My Father.
Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin?”
My Mother.
Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home—and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk?
My Aunt.
Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post?
My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?
My Stepmother.
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys,
And when I played cried “What a noise”—
Girls always hector over boys—
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine?
My Brother.
Who stroked my head, and said “Good lad,”
And gave me sixpence, “all he had;”
But at the stall the coin was bad?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referr’d me to the pump? Alas!
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathised with grief,
Or shared my joy—my sole relief?
Myself.
A VALENTINE.
THE WEATHER. To P. MURPHY,
Esq., M.N.S.
These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three
arms of Meteoric action.
DEAR Murphy, to improve her charms,
Your servant humbly begs;
She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.
Moreover, as you promise folks
On certain days a drizzle;
She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to mizzle.
Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot “fork it out,”
She’ll wish to make a bolt!
